


Under False Pretenses

by Fox_In_A_Box



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions, Pocket Monsters: Ultra Sun & Ultra Moon | Pokemon Ultra Sun & Ultra Moon Versions
Genre: (it's a pokémon bite), Alcohol, Banter, Eventual Fluff, First Meetings, Gambling, Humor, Like very minor, M/M, Mentions of Addiction to Both of the Above, Minor Violence, Non-Explicit Sex, Pre-Sun and Moon, Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_In_A_Box/pseuds/Fox_In_A_Box
Summary: After collecting one too many debts with the wrong people, former Elite Four Grimsley has started a new life away from home, in the Alola region. Alas, old habits die hard and all too soon does he find himself indulging in his passion for gambling and a little too many alcoholic drinks.At least until a fellow Unovan with a bizarre hi-tech suit and a mysterious past of his own barges into his life.
Relationships: Giima | Grimsley/Achroma | Colress
Comments: 23
Kudos: 23





	1. CHAPTER 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all sleeping on this ship, I swear! All jokes aside, I've been replaying some old Pokémon games lately and I've yet again fallen in the "if there's no content for this fandom/ship/trope you like, then write it yourself!" trap. So yeah, here's my humble contribution to the Falsepretensesshipping fandom, I guess? Gotta love the Pokémon fanbase and its overcomplicated ship names ahahahah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grimsley meets an interesting stranger at a bar and fails to rob him of all his money, getting more than he bargained for in the process.

There's a new face in town.

Grimsley's eyes remain glued to the stranger as he makes his way to the counter with the air of someone who knows exactly what he wants, yet doesn't quite know how to ask for it in a bar full of strangers who speak a strange dialect and cast him strange glances from over the rim of their half-empty glasses. He's not your average tourist, all expectant smiles and hideous patterned shirts, fresh out of the airport and looking to fight off the jetlag with a few sips of liquor. His long coat is too heavy for Malie's tropical climate, and with his thin-rimmed glasses and slicked-back hair he looks more like an eccentric teacher ready for another day of lectures than an excited holiday-goer.

A fish out of water.

Grimsley smiles faintly to himself. That makes two of them.

While the stranger speaks to the bartender, gesticulating when the language barrier hinders the communication, he estimates how much money such an odd fellow might have on him, how much he could be persuaded to wager in a game of cards, and how many losses he'd graciously accept before walking off with a frown on his face and perhaps a few choice words directed at him on his lips. The high-tech devices on his wrists look like they'd be worth a small fortune at any second-hand appliance store of the island. If he can get him to put them among the stakes, that is.

Difficult, he concedes. Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on the circumstances – he's never been one to turn down a challenge.

"I wouldn't sit there, if I was you," he calls out, raising his voice so that he can be heard over the animated chattering all around. "The guy that's just left had a...ah, let's call it an accident with his Trubbish. I haven't seen a waiter come clean the mess, yet."

The stranger turns to face him. He ponders his advice, ultimately deciding to listen to him. Grimsley realises he's made the first mistake only after he sits down opposite to him at the small table.

"Seems like you spared me an unpleasant experience. With whom do I have the pleasure?" He asks, in perfect Unovan without the slightest smidge of a foreign accent.

Grimsley silently curses his own oversight. There's no way this man has never seen him before. Granted, the story of the Elite Four who vanished into thin air after accumulating one too many debts at the gaming table only made the front page for a week or so, before being overshadowed by all sorts of speculations regarding his replacement and other more interesting news, but the chances he's never even caught a glimpse of his face from his sporadic appearances on regional television are slim at best. He's not sure the bags under his eyes and the fact that he's stopped dying his hair a while ago is enough of a disguise to fool anyone.

He nudges at Liepard under his chair with the heel of his shoe. The dark-type pokémon responds with a quiet purr. If they are forced to make a hasty escape, her Double-Team might turn out to be useful.

There is no hint of recognition on the stranger's face, though. The placid smile he offers him gives him enough courage to keep up the charade. "They call me Big G, around here. Pleased to meet you, Mr...?"

The stranger's shoulders shake in what Grimsley can only assume is a suppressed chuckle. Good. He can think of him as a boisterous idiot, for all he cares, as long as he doesn't see him as the disgraced élite trainer, infamous for his gambling addiction and ability to strip his opponents of all their worldly possession in hand of poker's worth of time.

"Chrome. And it's doctor, actually."

It's his turn to swallow a fit of laughter as he accepts the proffered handshake. Obviously fake name for obviously fake name. Fair's fair.

"Well then, welcome to Alola, doctor! May I ask what brings you here? Pardon my curiosity, but you don't look like the sort of tourist we usually get," he lowers his voice, pretending to look left and right to check no-one is eavesdropping. "Or is it top-secret? I'll have you know I'm an excellent secret keeper, and everyone else here is already too drunk to remember anything they might overhear. Or soon will be, anyway."

"Including you?" Doctor Chrome rebuffs, nodding at the bottle of whiskey resting on his side of the table.

It's a good thing Grimsley has taught himself to turn an incipient sneer into an amenable smile a long time ago, or he would have immediately given away that the remark has, in fact, hit a sore spot. Far too soon to reveal any weaknesses. They haven't even started playing yet. "Mh, perhaps."

"I'm analysing several possible sources of physical and mental strength in pokémon and trying to establish in what ways this strength can be boosted. In layman's terms, it means I'm studying new ways to optimise a pokémon's performance in battle. I meant to ask the bartender if she knew of any high-profile trainers that might be willing to take part in a private research project, but she made it pretty clear that to earn any information I'd have to order something first. Which I did, only to be told that a lot of talented trainers come to the island during summer but she has no idea where or when I could meet them, or if they'd even be interested in my proposition. Well-- I suppose that's what she told me, at least. We had some problems with the language."

"A scientist, then! I should have guessed. So what's your hypothesis? Where does a pokémon's power come from?"

The stranger doesn't exclaim anything as cliché as "I'm glad you asked!" but he might as well have. Grimsley can see he's flattered by his interest by the way he gradually abandons his rigid posture as he speaks, leaning slightly forwards with his elbows resting on the table. Before he knows it, he's treated to a convoluted explanation of the scientific correlations between battle prowess and a strong emotional bond between a trainer and their pokémon, complete with an abundance of incomprehensible jargon that leaves him dizzy and unsure he has grasped even the basics of his argument.

He wonders how many times he's been ignored by his peers, colleagues, and investors, to be so eager to launch into a detailed account of his research with the first person he meets at a bar. He hasn't touched his drink yet and, at this point, Grimsley doubts he ever will. It only means he'll have to be all the more persuasive to make up for the lack of alcohol-induced bad decision making. Nothing he can't handle.

In fact, the segue into their first game comes more naturally than he had anticipated. Grimsley only has to pitch the idea of a _friendly_ game of cards on the side, while they keep chatting, and the doctor is more than happy to indulge him, though he does warn him he's not an experienced player by any means. It takes Grimsley all of his self-control not to grin too wide as he dismisses his concerns, reassuring him that neither is he.

The trap is set.

No stakes, in the beginning, to ease into it and gain his opponent's trust. He lets himself lose the first game and win the second by a hair's breadth. The oldest trick in the book. Still pretending to listen to his ramblings about the physical proprieties of a strong emotional bond between pokémon and humans, he proposes to try and make their game more interesting, to which Doctor Chrome absentmindedly agrees, only halting his monologue for the time necessary to place a small stack of pokédollars on the table. Grimsley mirrors him, nodding and humming all the while to show he's still listening and very interested in the implications of his discoveries and not at all interested in bleeding him dry, no sir.

That's when his carefully crafted plan starts to fall apart.

Grimsley can't tell whether he has lost some of his old flair – he doesn't even want to entertain the idea, honestly – because of the lack of interesting opponents since he moved to Alola, or if the doctor really is an exceptional case of beginner's luck. His playing style is sloppy at best, he falls for nearly every one of his bluffs, and yet he somehow manages to draw all the cards he needs to turn the tables on him, while Grimsley himself struggles through yet another terrible hand. Money gets passed back and forth, and by the time he'd usually have gotten the other player to forfeit, they're still locked in a deadly stalemate, with the prize more or less evenly split between the two of them.

Scratching behind Liepard's ears with his free hand, he starts to conjure a backup plan. He has vowed to leave the old tricks that have caused him more trouble than good behind, and has been surprisingly successful in keeping his promise so far, but desperate circumstances call for desperate measures. And he _does_ keep four additional aces conveniently hidden in the left sleeve of his kimono. He only needs to divert the good doctor's attention for a second or two, and then...

"A beautiful specimen," Doctor Chrome muses, and it takes him a moment to understand he's referring to his pokémon.

He raises an eyebrow, perplexed. "I'll take it as a compliment...I guess?"

"It is," the other man clarifies with a chuckle. "She's very fond of you."

Grimsley doesn't bother to confirm nor deny his assumption. His focus is on the cards – the umpteenth awful hand, because Lady Luck seems to have refused him her blessing, tonight. At least until the opportunity to cut the game short, leaving with his money and his dignity intact, presents itself in the form of his opponent casting a worried glance at the clock hanging on the wall behind the counter.

"Something wrong, doctor?" He anticipates him.

Doctor Chrome shakes his head. "No, it's just -- I didn't realise it was this late. The hotel I'm staying at asked me to check-in before midnight."

"If you're in a hurry, we can settle it with this," he says, producing a coin from his sleeve with the same dexterity of a magician pulling a Bunnelby out of his top hat. He's only a little bit offended when Doctor Chrome doesn't appear to be impressed in the least. "Heads I win, and I get to take home everything that's on the table. Tails you win, and you're free to do the same."

The doctor considers his offer for a while. Just when Grimsley starts to worry that he'll push for resuming the game at a later date, he replies: "To be completely honest with you, I don't have much use for your money. You can keep it. What about you agree to help me out with my research, if I win?"

Grimsley flashes him a confident smirk, allowing himself to break his poker-face for the first time since they've started playing. "Very well."

With a flick of his thumb, he flips the coin – not before showing his opponent that it is, indeed, a regular coin and not a counterfeit. No need for those. Making any coin land on whichever face you prefer is one of the first tricks he had learned back in his late teenage years, when he was moving his first tentative steps in the gambling scene.

The second before he catches it mid-air and shows the doctor the result on the back of his hand, several things happen at once. A brawl breaks between two patrons at the far end of the room, their angry profanity-laden shouting soon joined by the growling of their respective pokémon. The bartender drops a glass, which startles another patron's Oricorio prompting it to let out an ear-splitting screech. The sudden chaos is completed by the door slamming open to reveal a small group of police officers lead by the Kahuna, most likely alerted by the noise. Nanu's eyes meet Grimsley's from the other side of the room and he's forced to pull his best "nothing to see here, officer" expression to counter the other man's suspicious scowl. It works, somehow, as he and his men don't spare him a second glance, hastening to break up the fight and drag the handcuffed offenders outside instead.

All too late does he realise that the commotion has caused him to lose track of his coin. Which, when he looks down, he finds laying on the doctor's open palm. Tails up.

"Well," he huffs. "A loss is a loss. You win this one, doctor."

"Splendid," Doctor Chrome declares, dropping the coin on the table and standing up from his chair. "I'll meet you tomorrow in the hall of Pacific Bay Hotel at say...eight o'clock? Remember to bring your Liepard."

Grimsley is about to protest – not once has he gotten out of bed before ten AM since he set foot in Alola and he has no intention of starting now, thank you very much – but the doctor is already marching towards the exit, taking care to avoid the shards of broken glass and puddles of spilled liquor that litter the floor, and leaving him alone with the last few customers and a stack of money that, in any other circumstance, would have made him a very happy man indeed.

Liepard looks up at him with a concerned "mrrrow?"

"Man oh man," Grimsley sighs, letting himself fall back in his chair with his forearm over his eyes. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

Liepard can't speak, but the meow she lets out in response really does sound like a "What have _you_ gotten us into, you mean."

She does have a point.

****

"I'll need to ask you a few routine questions before we begin. Please, make yourself comfortable."

Easier said than done. Despite the leather armchair Doctor Chrome has gestured towards looking comfy indeed, Grimsley doubts he'll be able to _make himself comfortable_ with someone watching his every move with overt interest. He sits down with one leg crossed over the other, affecting a relaxed pose. Liepard settles on the floor by his side, head resting on his knee and yellow eyes alert, fixed on the man sitting opposite to them.

"I hope it's nothing too personal," he half-jokes. Only half, because even though he's a liar through and through, a single slip with the wrong person might mean receiving an unpleasant visit from his creditors' goons. He doesn't know how much he can trust the doctor's discretion but, if the ease with which he let himself be dragged into a conversation the night before is any indication, he doubts he'd be able to keep his mouth shut for long.

"I guess it depends on your definition of personal," the other man replies. He produces a tablet from one of the inner pockets of his coat, while Grimsley wonders how in the world is he able to withstand the heat dressed up in that thing. "Why, do you have something to hide, Mr. G?"

"Do you, doctor?"

Contrary to all expectation, Doctor Chrome seems to appreciate the snarky comeback. Instead of acting annoyed or offended, he chuckles lightly. "I think it's better we save this conversation for another time," then, he proceeds to remind him that _he_ is the one asking questions. "I would normally start by asking your full name, age, and level of education, but you've made your aversion to personal questions pretty clear so I'll stick to the basics. I'll simply write you down as 'G'. However, I ask you to be as honest as possible when answering the next questions," he pauses just the time necessary for him to gesture that, yes, his request is acceptable. "Would I be correct to assume this Liepard has been in your possession for a long time? How long have you been training her?"

"Twelve years, give or take," Grimsley hesitates, fully aware that the entire purpose of this interrogation is for him to answer honestly which, unfortunately, clashes with his very nature. He settles for a half-truth, as a compromise. "Actually no, it's probably closer to eight years. She started off as a house pet. A birthday gift from my parents, way before I got interested in battling."

"So she was your first pokémon?"

Unsure whether it is a question or a statement, since the doctor has been taking notes non-stop both when he was and when he wasn't speaking, he confirms: "Yes, exactly."

Doctor Chrome hums in acknowledgement. "Good. And how many one-on-one battles has she lost ever since she evolved?"

"Not many," Grimsley says tentatively. For all his talk about treating every defeat as a precious chance to improve and learn from one's own mistakes, not even he likes to linger too long on his past failures.

"Could you be more specific?" The doctor insists. "Around 10%? Or closer to 15%?"

"I don't -- er, fifteen?"

"Between ten and fifteen percent, then. Would you say these losses were due to a misguided choice of strategy on your part? Unfavourable type matchups? Unexpected moves on your opponents' part, or...?"

"I'm pretty confident in my strategic skills," Grimsley interrupts him. "But I suppose I do have a tendency for riskier ploys. I don't like half measures. I find going all or nothing is often the best bet. But it's still a bet. Which means..." There he pauses.

Without realising, he has ended up paraphrasing the speech he used to give reporters whenever they intercepted him before or after an important match against a would-be Champion. Revisiting his time as an Elite Four hurts more than he would like to admit, even to himself. There's a good reason why he has done his utmost to get his mind off of it from the moment he stepped on the plane. Sensing his discomfort, Liepard starts to purr, as if to remind him of her presence by his side, always.

"Yes?" Doctor Chrome presses, an expectant expression painted over his face.

Grimsley dismisses him with a wave of his hand, that soon goes back to resting on Liepard's head. "Never mind. Just thinking out loud. To answer your question no, I don't think they were due to any egregious mistakes on my part. From what I can remember, they were more due to my opponents catching me off-guard than anything else you mentioned."

The doctor notes something down, re-reads it, then deletes it and rewrites it from scratch. Only then does he finally put his tablet down. "Perfect! We're done with the questions. Now, I would ask you to join me in the garden outside so the real experiment can start."

The sun has come up a little less than two hours ago and yet the temperatures are already nigh-unbearable – at least for a born and raised Unovan's standards. Grimsley is already regretting his decision to wear one of his old suits, an attempt at regaining some of the dignity he lost in the previous night's poker game, instead of his new kimono or even one of those ugly cotton T-shirts he had purchased from a tourist boutique upon his arrival in Ula'ula. Doctor Chrome, for his part, doesn't seem to be much bothered by it, though he agrees to relocate under the shadow of some nearby palm trees. He makes no move to take off his coat. Dedication to an aesthetic, if he's ever seen it.

"I would like to test your Liepard's abilities, if that's alright with you," he begins. "A single battle, one-on-one. Nothing fancy."

Grimsley had an inkling that this is what the doctor was getting at with his ramblings about unleashing the hidden potential of battle-trained pokémon, but it's only then that he starts feeling a familiar tingle of excitement, spreading from the tips of his fingers to the rest of his body. He allows himself to forget about the experiment and savour it, while he waits for Doctor Chrome to send out a pokémon of his own. It's been too long. He hadn't realised just how much he missed it.

Liepard steps forward, adopting her usual pre-battle stance and sweeping her tail from side to side as if daring her opponent to come out and face her. After the doctor produces a pokéball from yet another one of his pockets, she's joined on the impromptu battlefield by a Porygon2.

"I deliberately chose a neutral matchup so that typing won't influence the outcome of the battle."

Grimsley can't help but feel slightly offended at the explanation. He often jokes about bug-type pokémon being the bane of his existence and he hasn't yet had the courage to venture towards corners of the island predominantly inhabited by fairy types, it's true, but it doesn't mean he's afraid to take on advantaged opponents. "I don't know what gave you the impression, doctor, but there's no need to pull your punches."

Again, Doctor Chrome doesn't appear to be particularly impressed. If anything, he looks _amused_. "Good, I have no intention to. And I would ask you not to hold back, as well. A balanced fight is the key for what I'm trying to demonstrate. Well, Porygon2 is still an airborne pokémon while your Liepard is ground-bound, so the odds aren't technically--"

"I don't mind the odds not being in my favour, doctor. That's where I thrive." The grin tugging at the corner of his lips speaks of a smugness he hasn't sported in what seems like ages. Liepard echoes the sentiment by hissing at the other pokémon.

"Oh, I have no doubts about that."

To Grimsley's surprise and utter delight, the doctor proves to be an incredibly clever opponent. His Porygon2 takes full advantage of its hovering position to evade Liepard's lunges and his Tri-Attack hits _hard_ , to the point that his heart skips a beat when Liepard manages to dodge it at the last second or to shake it off after being hit square on the snout. Doctor Chrome seems to privilege more careful strategies, which comes as no surprise considering his temperament and the fact that Grimsley has openly confessed to having an aggressive, high-risk high-reward battle style. He's careful, telling his pokémon to avoid getting in close range as much as it can, and only when absolutely necessary to land an attack.

Grimsley can feel himself becoming a tad bit frustrated with the persistent stalling, which prompts him to resort to one of his favourite tactics – the one that has had him nearly banned from many an official tournament. He's been playing nice for far too long, at this point. With a subtle gesture of his left hand, he orders Liepard to pretend to be close to fainting when the following attack hits, preparing to snap back at her opponent when it inches closer to deal the finishing blow. It works marvellously. She's able to literally snatch the doctor's Porygon2 out of the air, pin it to the ground, and finish it off with a powerful Night Slash.

"Ten minutes and fifty-three seconds," Doctor Chrome declares, tapping on his high-tech watch-thing.

Grimsley hadn't even realised he was timing their encounter. As he kneels down to let Liepard headbutt him affectionately, as well as to reward her effort with an Oran Berry coupled with a long session of good old scratches, he glances over to him. "Found out something interesting?"

"Not yet. We'll have to wait for our rematch before drawing any conclusion," he says, turning to tend to his own pokémon with the aid of a Revive.

Grimsley frowns. "Wait, do I have to--"

For the first time, Doctor Chrome offers him something that is not an undecipherable smile but resembles more an apologetic grimace instead. "Yes. It's a lengthy process, I know, but it's the only way to test my theory. I'll introduce some variables in our next battle and hopefully things will start making more sense. In the meantime, I'd suggest we take a break and let both of our pokémon gather their strengths. I don't want the results to be biased because of exhaustion or other outside factors. How about we go get something to eat?"

Grimsley is tempted to leave, to tell him to find another subject for his ridiculous study because he has already done more than enough to repay his generosity. He has no obligation to stay around any longer, he tells himself. And yet, he's in a better mood than he's been in a long, long time, leftover adrenaline still rushing through his veins. Liepard stares at him with her head tilted to the side, as if to ask "Why, do you have anything better to do?"

He does not.

Besides watching Mantine surfers from the seashore without ever mustering the courage to join them in fear of attracting unwanted attention were he to make it into the leader board, or jumping from bar to bar with little to not motivation to resist the pull of the cards and the alcohol, there isn't much else he has been doing for the past few months.

That's how he finds himself in the veranda of a renowned high-end restaurant in downtown Malie, with his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows in a not very effective attempt at fighting off the hellish late morning heat and a delicious barbecued Magikarp in his plate. Doctor Chrome is once again sitting opposite to him, describing the functionality of the strange device on his wrists between a spoonful of seafood soup and the next.

"I programmed it to measure my body temperature every five minutes and adjust accordingly, among various things," he's saying. "I can still customize the settings manually, if need be, but its calculations are so precise that it's more trouble than it's worth. Other than that, it's equipped with a stopwatch, a tool that keeps track of my pokémon's health status, and many other work-relevant functions I won't bore you with. I'm thinking about having a messaging application installed, if I can find someone to do it for me."

As he listens to the explanation, Grimsley slips into an old habit – trying to gather as much information as he can by passively observing him and filing it in the back of his mind for future reference. Something that might have spared him the almost-defeat the night before, if he had bothered earlier. But alas. He'd rather place the blame on the whiskey rather than on his own arrogance.

In the span of a few minutes, he's already able to gauge some arguably interesting details about the other man from his body language alone. Doctor Chrome always adjusts his glasses, which keep fogging up because of the steam raising from his bowl, with his left hand, middle and index finger pressing on the bridge. He's also more prone to restlessness than he lets on, absently fiddling with his device here and there, clearing his throat before he says something he's not completely sure of, and tapping his foot when he pauses to collect his thoughts.

The worries that have plagued nearly every single one of his waking hours since he fled Unova are forgotten. The fact that the doctor has been adamant that he should offer him a meal for his trouble, ignoring his disingenuous attempt at refusing his kindness, may or not may have played a role in further improving his mood. If he'll be so inclined as to offer him a dessert as well, Grimsley will let him carry on with his scientific babble gladly. He'll encourage him, even!

"Really? I would have said you were more than capable of doing that by yourself. It can't be more difficult than devising everything you've shown me so far!"

Doctor Chrome brushes the implied compliment aside with a shake of his head that reveals a twinge of embarrassment. A glimpse of the human hiding behind the mask of the ice-cold scientist. "Ah, well, that's a bit outside of my area of expertise. I'm a bioengineer first and foremost, though I occasionally dabble in software engineering with...let's say various degrees of success."

"Still, if I knew anything about either of them, I'm sure I'd be impressed."

"Speaking of," the doctor intercepts him, as he wipes his mouth with the napkin. "May I ask what you do for a living? I promise it won't end up in any of my files."

"Usually I just hang around Malie, offering foreigners a chance to go back to their hotels with a hefty sum of money in their pockets. A _fair_ chance, mind you. Though the resident chief of police will tell you otherwise, I'm sure. If I had a hundred pokédollars for every time he harassed me with preposterous accusations..." He affects an exasperated sigh, before casting him a complicit glance. "Between you and me, I think he might just be envious of my Liepard. I would too, if I was carrying around a pathetic excuse for a Persian."

Doctor Chrome doesn't frown, doesn't roll his eyes and tell him that _that is not a job, Mr. G, that's what we call an addiction_. He simply keeps looking back at him with that unreadable half-smile of his. It's almost unnerving.

"Interesting career choice," he finally comments. Grimsley can't for the life of him tell if he's serious or if, more likely, he's toying with him. "I apologise for my insistence, I was just surprised to meet a compatriot here, of all regions. This is an odd place for Unovans like us to end up in, isn't it?"

Grimsley's lazy smile drops. He's able to catch himself a split second before his features twist into an expression that would be all too telling. He takes a long sip of water to disguise the sheer amount of time it takes him to decide how much truth to sprinkle into the made-up tale of how a formerly wealthy Unovan like him has ended up stranded on a tropical island.

However, he doesn't have the time to do more than to open his mouth before he's rescued by the waiter approaching their table to ask if they fancy ordering something else or if they want to skip straight to the bill. After Doctor Chrome gets his hands on the dessert menu, the topic is never broached again – thank Arceus – as he suddenly appears too engrossed in the vast selection of sweet treats the restaurant has to offer to care for any lie he might want to feed him to avoid spilling his guts about the series of unfortunate events that brought him to Alola.

"Our famous Malasada," he reads out loud, then glances up from the menu. "A local delicacy, right?"

Grimsley hums, relieved now that the conversation has shifted towards safer territory. "And a staple for any self-respecting tourists on his first visit to the region. Or so I've heard."

Doctor Chrome lets himself be persuaded to try one without putting up too much resistance, and is soon presented with the largest, sugariest Malasada Grimsley has ever seen.

"This might be a bit too much for me," the poor doctor admits. "You can take a bite, if you want."

"Oh no, no, no. I wouldn't dream of depriving you of the experience!"

The first bite he takes his hesitant. He chews on the tiny piece he's cut out with fork and knife for what feels like an eternity until he's able to reach his verdict. "It's...definitely very sweet."

Grimsley doesn't even try to choke back the short fit of laughter that pushes its way up his throat at the sight of the other man's expression. "Yes, I must confess I'm not a fan myself. But I've only tried it once, it might be an acquired taste. I just don't have the patience to get used to it, I guess."

And get used he does, much to Grimsley's astonishment. Despite his initial reticence, Doctor Chrome finishes the dessert, and poor Liepard is left to meow in indignation for not having been left a single crumble. Grimsley makes a mental note to buy her a bag of treats on the way home, later in the evening. She's more than deserved it.

By the time they leave the restaurant a cool breeze has started blowing, which makes the otherwise suffocating temperatures more bearable. Grimsley finds himself _hitching_ to battle again. Liepard seems to have recovered her energies, too. When he asks her if she's up to the challenge she responds with a chuff that he's sure means something along the lines of "Whenever have I not been ready?"

Doctor Chrome places something small, cold and slightly heavy in his hand.

"This is the variable I was talking about," he informs him. "I commissioned a wristwatch-like device to go with it from a man in Akala but unfortunately it's not ready yet. I was told it's more for utility purposes than anything else, so I thought we might try without, then repeat the test if we incur in any difficulties. I want you to keep it close to you during the entirety of the battle. Put it in your breast pocket and it should work just fine."

Holding the strange object between thumb and forefinger, Grimsley raises it up against the sun to get a better look at it. If at first glance he had thought it to be an odd pure-black stone, light shines through it revealing it to be more akin to a crystal than anything else.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you what it's supposed to do just yet," the doctor continues. "I have to rule out placebo effect from the table of possible interferences. All will be clear in due time."

On Liepard's insistence, Grimsley kneels down beside her with the crystal held out in his open palm so that she can sniff it. "What do you think?"

Liepard rubs her cheek against his knuckles, a sign he interprets as a "Whatever, fine by me".

Doctor Chrome proves to have learned a few things about his opponent from the previous battle, as right from the start he adopts the same strategy that makes Grimsley's already short patience wear thin, eroding both Liepard's endurance and his concentration. He pushes him to be less cautious, goading Liepard into diving into the battle head-first at the risk of sacrificing her defences, but it soon becomes clear that she won't be able take the doctor's Porygon2 down without some sort of gimmick. Except their time his opponent won't fall for it – he's already demonstrated to be more than capable of adapting on the fly, taking advantage of what his opponent struggles with the most. Or what irks them the most.

"Giving up already?" Doctor Chrome asks with the barest hint of a taunting smirk on his face.

Grimsley replies with one of his trademark confident grins. "I could ask the same thing. Think your pokémon can avoid Liepard's attacks forever?"

Right there and then, he spots an opening. Not wanting to lose his only chance at gaining the upper hand, he shouts at Liepard to go for a Feint Attack, followed by a Night Slash aimed at Porygon's left side. Instead of baring her claws, though, she stands her ground, just as he feels something similar to an electric current run through his body, making the fine hairs at the back of his head stand up. The air around Liepard grows heavy, sharp teeth still bared, she throws her head back to summon a surge of energy so dark that the sun is momentarily obscured. There is nothing Porygon2 can do to avoid being sucked right into it.

It's definitely not a Night Slash. Nor any other attacking move he has ever taught her, for that matter.

After the the light of day comes back to shine on the battlefield, Grimsley is left to stare in amazement at Porygon2 making a valiant effort to pick itself up from the ground, only to collapse under the weight of sheer exhaustion.

"Five minutes and twenty-eight seconds. Fascinating!" Doctor Chrome exclaims. "I was using the same strategy that seemed to give you some trouble last time, and still you managed to put an end to the encounter in half the time. The attack your Liepard used to knock out Porygon2 was more powerful than anything she had used before, and I think I'm justified in assuming you would have told her to use it sooner if you knew she had something this effective at her disposal."

The clarification falls on def ears. Grimsley is too preoccupied with digging the mysterious crystal out of the pocket of his jacket. It's warm to the touch, even though he clearly remembers it feeling cold in his hand when it had first been given to him. His eyes shift from the crystal to the doctor, then back to the crystal. "What is this?"

The smug look on the doctor's face tells him that whatever happened is exactly what he was expecting. "A Z-crystal. I had heard about its interesting proprieties, more precisely the effect it seems to have on pokémon who share a strong emotional bond with their trainers, and I couldn't wait to put them to the test. As you might have guessed from the colour, this one in particular is meant to boost the performance of dark-types."

"I've never seen anything like it."

He makes to return it to its rightful owner, who raises both hands as if to tell him not to bother. "You can keep it."

Grimsley blinks at him in disbelief. "What? No, this is -- you'll need it for further tests. And it looks like something you'd have to go great lengths to find."

"Not as great as you would think. Apparently, it's a traditional reward for completing the Island Trials. I insist. None of my pokémon could benefit from it, anyway."

Grimsley puts the crystal back in his pocket. There's no arguing with that.

"You've been very helpful," Doctor Chrome continues. "Consider your debt paid in full. Thank you."

They take care of the aftermath of their battle separately.

While the doctor is obliged take a trip to the nearest Pokémon Centre to make sure his Porygon2 receives the best possible treatment, Grimsley has to deal with Liepard's burst of nervous energy following her Z-crystal-fuelled exploit, a perfect mirror to the adrenaline rush he's still coming down from himself. After several failed attempts at getting her to calm down and return inside her pokéball, he resorts to letting her be. Pacing up and down the perimeter of the garden in front of the hotel while his pokémon plays a nasty game of chase with a Yungoos that has had the misfortune to stumble into her field of vision proves to be a nice outlet. He's still pacing when a by now familiar voice shakes him from his thoughts.

"To be honest, I didn't even think you'd come."

Grimsley casts him a quizzical look, one eyebrow raised in a silent request for clarification.

"You had your money, I didn't even know your name, you had no obligation to come and see me today. I don't know much about gambling, but I've always assumed people like you would jump at the chance to find a loophole that allows them not to pay off. And yet you humoured me."

"I'm an honest loser. Maybe not an honest _player_ , not always, but I do make a point to keep my word. You'd be amazed by how rare of a quality it is where I come from," he says. What little he has left of his skewed moral code, he's determined to keep clinging to it like a life jacket. Liepard has come trotting back to him and his now headbutting his hip affectionately. The Yungoos she was running after is nowhere in sight. Oh well. "You said you didn't need the money, but I can't believe I was the ideal subject for your study. Settling for the first person you meet…you can't be that desperate."

"I noticed how affectionate Liepard was with you, back at the bar. And I also find you a very interesting man, as simple as that."

The sincerity of his confession is a shock, no doubt, but in the end Grimsley finds he can't hold it against him. It's certainly a nobler purpose than the one for which he accosts unsuspecting strangers during the long nights he spends sitting at his table with a trusty bottle of booze.

"It was nice getting to know you, Mr. G. Take care of your pokémon, she's an incredible fighter."

"Likewise. Malie isn't that big, I have no doubt we'll meet again whether we like it or not," Grimsley muses.

"I'll look forward to it."

The time it takes Grimsley to realise there's no trace of irony in his statement, he has already disappeared behind the sliding doors leading to the hall of the hotel.


	2. CHAPTER 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a couple of unfortunate incidents and an exchange of favours bring Grimsley and his new acquaintance closer together.

His prediction proves to be correct. Except he couldn't have imagined the extent to which Doctor Chrome would become a permanent presence in his life.

Grimsley can count the days he doesn't bump into him on the fingers of one hand. He meets him in line at the Pokémart, lends him a hand in finding a certain place he's looking for if the clerks at the tourist office haven't been forthcoming with the directions, exchanges a glance or a polite smile with him each time they lock eyes from opposites sides of the road in the swarm of locals going about their day.

One day he spots him taking a solitary walk along the seashore, and the temptation to sneak up on him is too strong to resist. The alarmed look on the doctor's face lasts for a split second before recognition sets in, but it's priceless.

"You're not going to find many trainers for your tests, around here," he tells him. "It's more of a surfing spot, although not as popular as other beaches in Ula’ula. Perfect if you want to be alone with your thoughts, though."

"I appreciate the advice, but it is not what I'm interested in, today. I was hoping I'd get to take a look at some local wildlife."

"I thought you were studying the relationship between pokémon and their trainers?"

"I am," Doctor Chrome concedes. "But that doesn't mean I have to limit myself to one single topic at a time. I wouldn't dare to call myself a professional researcher if I couldn't multitask."

"Well, if it's wildlife you're interested in you're welcome to visit my front yard whenever you like. Cutiefly for days. I can't even let Liepard out for fear she comes back covered in bug bites," Grimsley sighs, remembering he needs to stock up on repels next time he manages to scrape together enough money. "And that's not even getting into the Ribombee during pollination season."

The doctor quirks one eyebrow at him. "Are you propositioning me, Mr. G? Because if that is the case, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. You hear stories about people going missing after they were last seen following suspicious strangers around."

Grimsley finds himself taken a back for a moment. To say he's not used to being met with such prompt rebuttals would be an understatement. In his experience, people tend to fall in one of three categories: those who blush and stammer their way out of the interaction, those who act outraged by his pretend advances, and those who are innocent enough to have the implications fly completely over their head. Any which way, leaving an opening for further teasing.

This is...unexpected. If you had asked him to make a prediction, he would have placed the doctor in the third category. Never would he ever had imagined that he would not only interpret his comment correctly as an attempt at getting a reaction out of him, but waste no time getting right back at him with a smirk that tells him just how proud he is of himself for having come up with such a clever comeback. A pleasant surprise, so much so that he can't help the genuine fit of laughter that fights its way up his throat.

"Suspicious, now, that's a first!" He exclaims. "I've been called a liar, before. A cheating bastard, more often than I would like. Criminally handsome, a couple of times, but _suspicious_. That's what you get for specialising in dark types, I suppose."

"I know you're joking, but this was actually part of my theory at some point. I had noticed how some trainers tended to develop similarities in both behaviour and temperament with their preferred pokémon type, so I tried conducting some tests. I had to discard it because--" he cuts himself off when he notices something out of the corner of his eye. "Is that what I think it is?"

Grimsley follows his gaze towards the green silhouette of a Grimer emerging from a hidden alcove between the nearby rocks. "A Grimer?"

"An _Alolan_ Grimer. I didn't think I'd get to see one so soon!"

"They're pretty common around here," Grimsley muses. "They're attracted by the garbage bags that remain piled up outside the restaurants after closure. Lots of tasty treats for a poison type, I suppose."

"Such an unusual coloration!" The doctor remarks, barely able to restrain his excitement for the unexpected encounter. Like a child on Christmas day. "Is it due to dietary differences with its Kantonian counterpart, I wonder?"

"Yes, very charming," is all Grimsley can say, struggling to keep himself from wrinkling his nose.

The pokémon doesn't stink per se – which is admittedly a nice surprise – but it does resemble the Trubbish and Grimer native to his home region too much for him to feel comfortable getting any closer. The gooey texture of its body really doesn't make the prospect of touching it or going anywhere near it any more appealing. He can imagine the lengths he would have to go to find a laundry willing to remove the smell from his clothes, were it to be startled by a sudden movement on his part and respond with a spray of acidic substance straight from its stomach.

To be fair, the Grimer doesn't seem to be very inconvenienced by their presence. If he has noticed them at all, it doesn't mind – it just keeps slithering slowly along the seashore, in search of fresh garbage to gorge itself with.

"Maybe I should try to catch it," Doctor Chrome ponders out loud, more talking to himself than to anyone else in particular. "That way I would be able to study it in the relative comfort of my hotel room. Then again, captive pokémon are known to exhibit different behaviours from wild members of the same species. Perhaps I should just take note of this spot and come back later to observe it in its natural habitat..."

There's a certain endearing quality to the doctor's voice when his scientific curiosity starts to get the better of him. Grimsley must admit that he'd be more than happy to stand back and watch him kneel down on the sand to try and get the pokémon's attention, if it means catching a glimpse of the man behind the technologically advanced overcoat. He's always appreciated the chance to see someone's true nature shining through the cracks, especially if that someone is a bizarre individual like Doctor Chrome. And what if there's a genuine smile pulling at the corner of his mouth? The doctor's enthusiasm must be contagious.

"Ah, indecision!" He teases. "Truly the greatest enemy of us all."

Doctor Chrome casts him brief glance from over his shoulder, clearly amused by the dramatics of his statement. "You sound like you speak from personal experience."

"Sometimes life is like a game of roulette. Waste too much time deciding which colour and numbers you're going to bet on, and you might end up losing either way when the roulette starts spinning and you have yet to make your wager. Take your little green friend over there," Grimsley says, gesturing towards the pokémon who, in the meantime, has stopped wandering around and is now standing still a few feet away from them. "You can throw a pokéball and catch it before it's too late, or you can weigh up all the pros and cons of leaving it in the wild and let it get away. Now that would be a real shame."

"Interesting philosophy," the doctor concedes. He reaches out to pick up a stray tin can left behind by some inconsiderate tourist. Grimsley supposes his intention is to present it to the Grimer as some sort of peace offering. Or maybe as a distraction to get him to lower its guard long enough for him to fetch an empty pokéball. "What about the age-old advice we always used to get when we were younger, then? Think before you act?"

"Well, that reduces the risks, it's true, but it also takes some of the fun out of living. Security in exchange for excitement. Is it a good bargain? The answer usually changes depending on who you ask."

Contrary to Grimsley's advice, Doctor Chrome appears to think about it for a short while, absently toying with the can. "I'll get back to you on this one later, I think."

And that's about as far as their light-hearted banter goes.

Afterwards, Grimsley would have been hard-pressed to tell what had caused the sudden shift in the Grimer's attitude, from relaxed if a bit wary to frightened and aggressive in the blink of an eye. The doctor showing it the crumpled-up tin can must have been interpreted as less of a friendly approach and more of a threat of some sort because, instead of accepting the gift, it clamps its blunt teeth down on the doctor's wrist before turning tail and fleeing in the opposite direction. Grimsley, for his part, isn't really interested in investigating the hidden machinations of a Grimer's mind.

With a quick lunge that would have made Liepard envious, he's at his side.

"This is not good," Doctor Chrome mutters under his breath. He's staring dumbfounded at the tear in the sleeve of his coat, a mix of blood and slime from the pokémon's mouth dripping from the bitemark beneath, as if struggling to come to terms with the reality of the situation.

Grimsley can't say he disagrees with the sentiment. Although not good might be a euphemism, considering how all the colour has drained from the doctor's face and his breath is already starting to get shallow.

"Let me see," he takes the other man's hand in his own, racking his brain for everything he knows about pokémon poison. Which, unfortunately, isn't much. And if the paleness of the doctor's face wasn't worrisome enough, he can't help but notice how his arm stays limp in his grip, as if he was already losing his strength.

"If it's anything like the Kantonian variation's, the poison travels through the bloodstream," Grimsley is vaguely aware of him saying, as if answering his unspoken question. "Which means...Which means...Symptoms include increased heart rate, difficulty breathing, vivid hallucinations, death..."

" _Death_?"

"If not treated promptly."

From an outside perspective he's sure the scene must be comical, albeit in a somewhat twisted, dark sense of the word. Grimsley is nothing short of panicked, eyes darting this way and that in a failing attempt at finding anyone, anything that could help him, while Doctor Chrome just hangs there, absurdly nonplussed when faced with the prospect of his imminent demise. Although that might have something to do with the poison taking effect.

His agitated fumbling and flailing around eventually alerts a small group of surfers headed to the beach, who waste no time pulling out their Poryphones and calling the nearest hospital.

Once the paramedics have taken charge of a by now nearly passed out Doctor Chrome, Grimsley is left to perform a complicated charade for the benefit of the nurses and doctors passing him by, trying to get at least one of them to spill any information about his conditions. After being turned away twice for not being a close family member of the patient, and backtracking of his own volition on a third occasion in which a nurse had tried to make him fill out a form with his full name plus a lot of other sensitive information, he resorts to nigh-begging an elderly janitor, who treats him to quite a lot of scowling and huffing before he relents, directing him towards a room on the second floor – but not without advising he "makes it quick".

The short trip up the stairs leaves him with enough time to second guess himself, wondering what has gotten into him to elicit such a strong, irrational reaction in response to the doctor getting hurt. They barely know each other, after all, he could easily go his merry way and no-one would judge him for it. It's not like him to show this level of concern over someone he has known for barely a month. He has more than enough troubles of his own, without saddling himself with someone else's as well. Right?

 _He could feel indebted_ , a treacherous voice whispers from the back of his head, _especially if you show him enough goodwill. And who knows how much money he's willing to splurge to express his gratitude, this time around._ He would lie if he said the the thought isn't appealing in the least.

The long corridor of the upper floor is empty, so he's free to slip inside room number 28 closing the door behind him, careful not to make too much noise in the process. 

Doctor Chrome is lying in a standard hospital bed, with his bandaged right hand resting on his stomach over the covers. He's been hooked up to an IV that is currently pumping what Grimsley can only guess is the strongest antidote they had at their disposal right into his bloodstream He's not as pale as he was on the beach anymore, which he hopes to be a good sign. Alerted by the faint sound of his footsteps on the tiled floor, he blinks his eyes open.

"I would say I'm happy to see you, but..." he says, gesturing towards his glasses sitting on top of the bedside table next to the bed. "This is really unfortunate."

"I would say nearly catastrophic, but you do you," Grimsley replies, not even trying to hide his relief. Without his glasses, it's not like the doctor can notice how the tension abandons his shoulders and his chest deflates with a small sigh, anyway.

"I owe you," Doctor Chrome continues, straight to the point. Grimsley feels like he's been reading his mind, which is more than a little concerning. "Quite a lot, in fact."

Grimsley shakes his head. "Even if I hadn't been there, those guys would have found you in time. The only payment I could use is a promise that you'll forget everything I said about acting before thinking and maybe spend more time strategizing, next time you approach a wild pokémon. At least when I'm around. I don't particularly fancy having you die in my arms. That would raise some questions."

There's a playful edge in his tone, easing the atmosphere that would otherwise be too serious for his personal taste. The part of him that had licked its lips at the prospect of a monetary reward for his effort only minutes before slaps a hand to its forehead at the missed opportunity.

Doctor Chrome attempts to bring his right hand to his chest, over his heart, to add a solemn tone to the promise he's about to make. He's still too weak for that, and he frowns when he realises he can't lift it higher than a couple of inches over his stomach. "Very well. Not that difficult to maintain, as promises go."

Grimsley knows he should leave, now. He's made his visit, now it's up to him to disregard his words and offer him a more tangible token of his appreciation, if he really wants to. Besides, the janitor's warning still rings inside his head. The last thing he wants is to be kicked out, with the possibility of the staff rushing to call the local police. But still, he lingers.

He lingers long enough for the doctor to add, almost as an afterthought: "I hope you don't mind me asking for one more favour, then."

"Provided it's not going back out there to catch that Grimer for you."

The doctor lets out a weak chuckle. "I'd say it has earned its freedom. No, it's about -- They said they'll have to keep me under observation for at least twenty-four hours and, to be completely honest with you, I'm afraid I might sooner die of boredom than by complications caused by the poison. The nurses that have come to check on me so far are painfully dull, I don't think they'd be able to engage me in an interesting conversation if they tried. Keep me company?" He pauses, perhaps realising he might have been too demanding. "Unless you have somewhere else you should be, of course."

Grimsley knows the struggle all too well. They do have something in common besides their stubborn dedication to secret keeping, after all. For someone like him, being stuck in a hospital bed for an entire day, possibly longer, with nothing on his hands is equal to hell on Earth. Only now does he realise that it must be the same for the other man. His chest aches in sympathy. He's not sure what that means. He only knows he won't find it in himself to refuse.

By way of an answer, he walks to the other side of the room to retrieve a chair and drags it by his bedside, before letting himself drop on it.

"If that is the case," he begins. "I have a number of anecdotes about my close encounters with some, ah, rather feisty Alolan species that I think might interest you."

On the second try, Doctor Chrome manages to pull himself up to a sitting position. "Oh please, do tell!"

His tale about his and Liepard's first, dreadful encounter with a Comfey upon his arrival to the region wastes the rest of the day away. Grimsley has to get up and scramble to hide in a nearby wardrobe only once, when a nurse comes in to check on her patient and bring him some dinner which they proceed to share once the emergency is over. It takes them both a while to stop shaking with laughter at Grimsley almost toppling an entire shelf of medicines over, in the process of coming out of his hiding spot.

Grimsley almost has a heart attack when he's shaken awake by the same grumpy janitor from the day before, only to find the hospital bed empty.

Anguished, he bolts out of the room and down the stairs, nearly crashing into the doctor himself, completely recovered and dressed up in his characteristic long coat, busy signing off the papers necessary for his discharge at the front desk.

He doesn't miss how he takes advantage of the secretary's momentary distraction when an injured hiker is wheeled in by a small army of paramedics, to slip the document in the inner pocket of his coat, muttering something about how leaving a paper trail behind won't do him any good. Grimsley doesn't question it – though he does file the information in the back of his head, to be revisited later when he's less shaken.

"The doctors said they see cases like mine almost every other week. Luckily, the poison secreted by Alolan Grimer as self-defence mechanism is a lot less powerful than the one that has made their cousins so famous in the mainland. If it had been a Kantonian one, now, that would have been a whole different story," Doctor Chrome explains, urging him to accompany him outside. He has no idea of how that is even possible, but he seems to be more full of energy than he was before the unfortunate encounter with the Grimer. "Not a pleasant experience by any means, but at least I can say I've learned something new. Every cloud has a silver lining."

Somehow, Grimsley finds himself having to agree with the old adage.

"Do you have anything I could use to fix the tear, by chance?" He carries on, eyeing his sleeve with a preoccupied frown. "Even duct tape could work as a temporary solution, until I find a better one. Nothing seems to be out of order, for now, but I'm afraid leaving an opening would end up damaging the ventilation system."

"Not at hand, if that's what you're asking. But I should have a needle and some thread at home," Grimsley replies. "I was more or less forced to learn how to sew my buttons back on, after leaving my trusted tailor back in Unova. Haven't found anyone quite like her here, yet."

For the sake of his pride, he omits the part where he can't afford a tailor or other similar luxuries anymore. The doctor doesn't respond, nor does he wait for a formal invitation to follow him through the maze of cobbled streets Malie is known for. He doesn't even mention their conversation about suspicious people and the dreadful things that could happen if you make the grievous mistake of trusting them. He seems to have decided that Grimsley is trustworthy enough for him. That, or he values his equipment more than his personal safety. He wouldn't put it past him.

They take a shortcut through a series of back alleys, and just as they're about to turn the last corner, Grimsley freezes. There are two people standing on the porch, his worst nightmare materialised right in front of his door.

Both a blessing and a curse, his well-trained memory kicks into gear so that he doesn't need to see them in uniform to recognise the Team Rocket lieutenants who won an astronomically large sum against him at one of the organisation's casinos in Johto, a few years back. A sum he had solemnly vowed to pay up, only to jump on the first airplane back to Unova without handing over a single cent. By the time he made it home safely, against all odds, the news of Team Rocket having disbanded once and for all after messing up their grand comeback was already spreading to the other regions. It would be preposterous to assume he'd played a part in the embarrassing failure of their plans by cutting their finances, but if they've gone so far as to track him down just to settle the score there might be a grain of truth to it.

He places a hand on the doctor's chest to signal him to stand back, which he thankfully does without protesting.

"Is everything..." he lowers his voice to a whisper after Grimsley gestures him to please be quiet, _please_. "Alright? Do you know them?"

"We can't go inside right now. Mind if we take a detour?"

Doctor Chrome stares him down, puzzled, and Grimsley just knows he won't let off until he explains himself, something that will require uncovering his cards. Some of them, at the very least. He takes in a shaky breath, never letting his eyes stray from the two former Rocket lieutenants, who keep knocking insistently at his front door, cursing, but trying again and again even though it's clear no-one is going to answer.

"They're ex-Rocket. We've had some...disagreements in the past," Grimsley cringes at his own wording. "They're not the kind of people who settles arguments with a pokémon battle, if you know what I mean."

"I could go talk to them," the doctor suggests, as if that was the most natural solution to the problem, making Grimsley's expression change from worried to outright horrified.

"What? No! Are you out of your mind?!"

Perhaps having heard something, the two men raise their heads and turn around, prompting Grimsley to retreat further down the narrow alleyway they've just left, dragging the doctor with him by the lapel of his coat.

Doctor Chrome tilts his head, offering him a condescending look as if _he_ 's the one who's lost all of his common sense. If he had any to begin with, that is. "I'll pretend I'm the one living here. If they insist, I'll tell them I saw someone corresponding to your description leaving the island a while ago. They don't know me, they have no reason to believe I'm covering you. Besides, I still feel like I owe you a favour."

Grimsley lets out a bitter chuckle. "They won't just _insist_ , they'll -- Wait, no no no, you have no idea--"

It's all useless. Undeterred, Doctor Chrome twists himself free from his hold and struts out of the alley, with a misguided confidence that is most likely going to be what does him in, in the end.

Grimsley feels like he's about to pass out. His heart couldn't be beating any faster if it tried. And maybe, just maybe, a sudden death caused by the shock would be preferable to whatever his creditors will have in store for him once they've dealt with the doctor. He doesn't even want to look. He wonders if he'll manage to keep them busy long enough for him to make a break for the ferry terminal, reach a different island, and from there find his way out of the region, somewhere, anywhere his creditors won't follow. Where to, though? He has no idea. Alola had been the safest bet, after all, and yet...

He musters the courage to peek his head around the corner, only to find that, much to his disbelief, the Rocket lieutenants are gone. Doctor Chrome stands alone in front of the house. When he meets his eyes, he addresses him a come-hither gesture as to tell him that he can come out. Grimsley does, albeit on shaky legs that are barely able to carry him the few feet he needs to cover to join him on the doorstep.

"They'll come back."

"They won't," Doctor Chrome assures him.

"What--" Grimsley pauses, clearing his throat when his voice comes out higher than he would like. "What did you tell them?"

There's a sudden glint of something, something that could almost be called _mischief,_ behind of the lenses his glasses. "Only that I bought the house from someone who looked like you, that I have no idea where said person has gone off to, and that I would be very grateful if they let me be and went looking elsewhere."

Grimsley can tell when someone is trying to mislead him. Alas, he's not as well-versed in deducing what the truth hiding behind the lies may be. So even though he knows the doctor is holding something back, he has no way of knowing what kind of ace he had up his sleeve, so powerful to persuade two gangsters to leave without raising any questions.

"Alright," he mutters, more to calm himself down than to agree with the other man's methods of getting rid of unwanted visitors. "Alright, this is fine."

His intention was to make him wait outside as he went ahead and fetched the necessaire, throwing his way some comment on how he wasn't expecting guests and the house is in a deplorable state of disarray as a result, but he soon realises it's a losing battle. The moment Doctor Chrome invites himself in, he finds himself lacking the strength to summon any of the perfectly understandable excuses he had come up with on the way there.

Once inside, Grimsley makes a beeline for the bathroom, almost rushing to the small cupboard where he keeps the promised supplies. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sink, looking nothing short of distraught, eyes even more sunken in than usual – if such thing is even possible. _Great_.

He allows himself a minute to regain his composure. His heart is still threatening to burst out of his ribcage, but there's precious little he can do to persuade it to slow down. No time for that. He has the feeling that if he leaves the doctor unsupervised for too long, he'll find him snooping around upon his return. He's made no mystery of his curiosity, no way he wouldn't take advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime chance to learn something new about him. Thankfully, any incriminating material he hasn't had the heart to throw away – old family photos, memorabilia from his Elite Four days, a copy of Shauntal's debut novel – is tucked away in drawers one would really have to go out of their way to find. At a glance, nothing in the disposition of the furniture and bland decorative objects he'd selected with the specific purpose of straying as far as possible from his personal aesthetic preferences points towards the occupant being anything other than a boring foreigner enamoured with the local culture, desperately trying to get away from the stress and chaos of big Unovan cities.

He walks back into the living room, where he finds his guests aimlessly walking around the room, sometimes pausing to look at this or that piece of furniture, hands clasped behind his back like a tourist visiting a museum. He makes for a strange contrast with the atmosphere of simplicity permeating the rest of the house. A living supercomputer standing in the middle of a tropical forest.

"Fair warning – I'm not an expert. I'm afraid sewing is not one of my many talents. Can't have them all, right?"

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," Doctor Chrome says, dismissing his concern.

After unfastening an absurd number of straps and buttons, he shrugs his coat off, revealing a plain black long-sleeved shirt and matching trousers. Grimsley catches himself staring. The first thought that occurs him is that his new friend is, if possible, even taller than he had believed him to be at a first glance. The second is that he's just thought of him as a _friend_ and that should scare him, it really should, because nothing good could come from him developing any kind of attachment to what is essentially a glorified stranger. It takes him a bit longer than acceptable to react to the implied invitation, taking the coat from him and starting to look for the spot that needs his intervention.

He makes quick work of the tear, noting how the coat isn't made of any type of fabric he's familiar with, no doubt having to do with the strange proprieties of the suit itself. The end result is unrefined, the stitches uneven, but something tells him the doctor isn't going to complain. Far from it, he watches him intently as he goes about his task, mentioning something along the lines of how he'll be able to replicate the process by himself, next time, if he studies his movements closely.

"So, no questions?" Grimsley asks after a while, unnerved by the uncharacteristic lack of inquiries on the doctor's part about what has just transpired. He had expected to be submerged by a plethora of hypothesis on his origins and mysterious background. And yet.

"I must admit I had made a few guesses on why you were so averse to giving out personal information, but this goes beyond anything I had imagined. You didn't strike me as the type to get involved with gangsters," he muses after a while, almost casually. "Consider me intrigued."

"I wouldn't let my imagination run wild, if I was you. Reality is often underwhelming," Grimsley tells him, returning the coat, now that his work is complete. "But if you want to think of me as the undercover leader of some infamous criminal syndicate, I'm not going to stop you. Just please don't tell the chief of police, or he'll have my head."

The joke has the desired effect, causing the doctor to shake his head in disbelief, mixed with exasperation. Grimsley finds himself hoping there is a hint of fondness thrown in the mix. There _is_ the shadow of a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth but that, he has learned, is a rather poor indicator of what really goes on inside the good doctor's head.

Grimsley had never thought he would say that, but that might have been too many emotions for two days alone. He can't wait to collapse on his bed and sleep, possibly for twenty-four hours straight. As soon as the doctor leaves, however, he stuffs a change of clothes and some other necessities inside a small suitcase that he then places by the door, before finally allowing himself to rest.

Just in case, he tells himself.

Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, Colress may or may not have made vague references to his former affiliation with Team Plasma and made it pretty clear that good old Grim is under his protection. I like to think that evil teams are more or less aware of one another's business, and that they usually tend to avoid stepping on each other's toes if they can. No-one wants another Team Aqua vs Team Magma style feud amiright?


	3. CHAPTER 3.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get a little better for Grimsley. Until they don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time around because I wouldn't have known where else to break off the narration off otherwise, since the last two chapters are already pretty long as they are. So yeah.

Summer brings an unexpected influx of young trainers to the isle – some of them looking to prove their worth by taking on the Trials, others scouting the wilderness for new pokémon to add to their roster, some others simply wanting to enjoy a short vacation away from their overbearing parents and insufferable siblings.

Without really knowing why, whenever he happens to be close enough to overhear their discussions about which town they should head to next, Grimsley quips up steering them towards "that strange fellow with glasses and an overcoat" who is in desperate need of experienced trainers for his research. He struggles to hide his surprise when a few of them come back to thank him – claiming the doctor has not only put their pokémon to the test, but also spared a number of useful pieces of advice as a reward for their collaboration. He is, if possible, even more surprised when a veritable hoard of challengers approaches him at the beach and in bars claiming that "a blond scientist guy" suggested they battle him to assess how well their team deals with a serious challenge, in preparation for the island Trials. The thought of Doctor Chrome sharing his whereabouts with children who'll be soon travelling all over the region worries him, at first. Until he realises he's been so busy showing these youngsters what it means to be a real élite trainer that he hasn't been gambling with strangers for weeks, and that his fingers don't twitch anymore suffering the absence of a deck of cards.

It's a good diversion, better than the endless bureaucratic procedures he used to have to go through as a respected member of the Elite Four, when real battles worthy of his excitement were rare. Still, he isn't so naïve to believe it to be a definitive solution to all his troubles. Craving always finds a way. So Grimsley accepts it for what it is – a small mercy, one that for the time being keeps him from drinking himself into a stupor or losing the last few cents he has left in his pockets.

Inviting his benefactor for a drink, the next time they cross paths, is a natural consequence. He doesn't know of many other ways he could make his gratitude known. The doctor updates him on the latest breakthroughs he has made with a bright gleam in his eyes, genuine childlike wonder in the way he speaks of his discoveries, that Grimsley has rarely ever seen in someone his age. It gets brighter still when he speaks of what he has yet to discover. His research has been going so well, in fact, that he feels like branching out, stacking side-projects one over the other, which go from simple and straightforward like compiling a list of differences between various pokémon's regional forms, to as ambitious and honestly kind of terrifying as finding a way to cross the boundaries between worlds to catch a glimpse of as of yet undiscovered life forms living just a universe away.

Grimsley tells him what he's been up to, in turn, embellishing his tale with a number of fictitious details to make up for the lack of real interesting events. He does what he does best – lie again and again, sprinkling in enough truth to pass as believable and, most important, less hopeless than he truly is. Doctor Chrome accepts his lies as a fact, maybe he doesn't even notice them. Or, if he does, he understands that scolding him for manipulating the truth would be like trying to teach a Murkrow not to steal: useless. Old habits die hard.

Before long, it becomes a pleasant ritual, repeated every other Sunday or Saturday evening according to the doctor's schedule. The new routine gives Grimsley a sense of predictability that had been lacking for great part of his life. The very word, _routine_ , would have made him recoil in disgust a lifetime ago. If his old self would have perceived the repetition as boring, dangerous even, he welcomes the change of pace with open arms.

Their weekly chats soon shift from the present to the recent past, as they end up taking about their home region. Though reminiscing together about Unova is a formidable cure against homesickness, it requires a certain degree of dancing around the most sensitive details for the both of them, which oddly enough contributes to create a sense of camaraderie.

Grimsley is somewhat relieved at the sight of Doctor Chrome struggling to recount the story of how he came to obtain a Beldum egg without being too specific about where he was working at the time and for whom – it's what he does too, though admittedly with much more finesse. Slowly, he begins to suspect that the need for new research subjects isn't the only impulse that brought him to the archipelago. The shadow of regret cast over his features by each mention of his previous occupation makes it all the easier to sympathise with him. Grimsley himself is no stranger to regret, nor to bad decisions. Strange thing to bond over, but if there's something he has learned while making his way through life is that beggars can't be choosers.

When the unimportant bits of trivia about their past lives are exhausted, and what remains is too dangerous to be shared in a venue full of prying ears, they move away from the topic in silent, mutual accord. Trivialities take the spotlight, less comforting but just as effective to waste the long nights away.

Grimsley teaches Doctor Chrome how to play blackjack and baccarat, how to tell with a certain degree of accuracy if your opponent is bluffing, and what to pay attention to if you suspect they might be cheating. He also teaches him a couple of Alolan idioms he has picked up during his permanence, which take several tries for him to start using correctly, much to his and the other patrons' hilarity. Doctor Chrome, in turn, shows him his charts, explains how his research methods works, and what he hopes to obtain with all the data he's been collecting. He shows him his other pokémon as well – steel and electric types for the most part – and they spend an entire night discussing training techniques, to the point that the owner is forced to kick them out when closing time comes around.

A funny thing Grimsley notices after a while is how no matter the topic of conversation, no matter the game they're playing or how many drinks they've had, the doctor always finds a way to throw in random, unprompted pieces of advice that leave him wondering whether he should feel offended or endeared. Years of training his keen eye to decipher other people's body language, and he's still unable to guess if he's genuinely worried for him or if he's just making fun of his non-existent instinct of self-preservation.

"Drinking alcohol before bed and sleeping on your stomach aggravate dark circles. I thought you might like to know," he says. And "I've heard Persim Berry juice is very effective against insomnia." And "Did you know that eating chocolate triggers the same neural receptors responsible for happiness?"

Grimsley does the only sensible thing that comes to mind: he teases back.

"If an esteemed scientist with a definitely not made-up name says it, then it must be true," he counters. "I didn't take you for the kind of person who trusts home-made remedies" And again "You're speaking from personal experience, I gather?"

Doctor Chrome endures every jab with an aplomb that should be infuriating but only causes him to break down into laughter instead.

It's when Grimsley starts to regard him as the closest thing he's had to a friend ever since cutting ties with his old life that fate, in the form of Doctor Chrome's insatiable hunger for knowledge, decides to take a fatal stab at his newfound stability. As romantic as it sounds, it is true that humans are bound to fall into the trap of taking everything for granted until it's abruptly stripped from them. Because Grimsley doesn't realise just how much he's been enjoying the comfort of the doctor's company until, on a Sunday evening like any other, he casually mentions his intention to move to Akala.

"Good news!" the doctor announces even before he sits down at what has become their usual table. "I found a new room at a hotel in Heahea...is that how you pronounce it? Anyway, I'm planning to turn it into my new base of operations. It's quite a bit larger than the one I’m staying at, and the positioning is way more convenient for any trip I'll need to take in the future. I struck an unbelievable deal with the owners, only 5.000 pokédollars per night."

Caught off-guard, it takes Grimsley a second to summon an appropriate, if stilted response. "5.000 pokédollars, are you sure?"

"Indeed. I talked to them over the phone, they claimed it was the only room left and that they couldn't wait to give it away, especially after I showed interest in booking it for the next six months at least."

"If it turns out the hotel is haunted or that there's a colony of Rattata living in the walls, don't say I didn't warn you."

Doctor Chrome shrugs, raising his glass to his lips. "Ah well, I guess you'll be the first to know."

Grimsley pretends to be genuinely happy for him, even as a part of him wonders how long it will take him to crawl back to his bad habits, with no-one to keep him occupied. He despises how he's become so reliant on human connection that the mere prospect of the only one who's been willing to provide some so far being stripped away from him sends a stab of fear through the pit of his stomach. He who prided himself in going his own way, head held up high, with no regards for desires other than his own, not his family's, not his colleagues or his detractors. Pathetic.

A question he only manages to catch the tail end of shakes him off his mournful considerations.

"…on your mind?"

Doctor Chrome is frowning, concern written all over his features. It's enough for Grimsley to know his façade has slipped, revealing a glimpse of his true feelings laying beneath. Suddenly aware of the gravity of his own mistake, he mumbles an "I’m sorry?"

"You seemed lost in thought," the doctor clarifies.

It doesn't last longer than a moment. The blink of an eye. Then he's back to his usual self, as haughty as ever. "Ah, that’s because I was! Thinking about you wandering alone through the streets of an unknown city. Are you sure you'll manage to get by without me as your guide?"

"It won't be easy, but I'll have to make do."

They both will.

Grimsley goes to bid him goodbye at the docks, a few days later, though he pretends to be dropping by for completely unrelated reasons. Doctor Chrome seems to appreciate the thought either way. To his astonishment, he goes as far as to give him an awkward if affectionate pat on the shoulder with the hand not currently carrying the suitcase containing his belongings.

"I'd tell you to come visit some time, but in truth I'm not sure you'd find me there," he tells him, as the other passengers rush to get their tickets checked and claim the best seats on board. "Akala is only the first stop. After that I'm planning to take trips to Poni and Mele Mele, to try and reach as many trainers as possible. And many different species of pokémon too, obviously. Variety is key when choosing a research sample."

"I wish you the best of luck, then," Grimsley says. "I must admit that I'll miss dragging you through one culture shock after another. I'll have to find something as worthy of my time."

"Didn't you say you were interested in Mantine surf?"

Did he? It must have been one of the few crumbles of truth he'd decided there was no harm in sharing. It is, after all, a piece of information rather unlikely to be used against him. What can he say? That he's devoured by envy every time he watches the surfers from ashore, wishing he could afford to be so careless and not have to worry about anything other than the thrill of riding the waves with his pokémon? He shakes his head, more to rid himself of such unpleasant thoughts than to express his disagreement.

He blurts out the first excuse that comes to mind. "I might be too old for that."

"We're around the same age. Please don't say that," the doctor replies, giving way to the last light-hearted interlude before the the inevitable separation. "Thank you for the company, for showing me around, and for...everything else. From the bottom of my heart."

Grimsley's response is drowned by the ear-splitting whistle announcing that the ferry is about to depart.

It's just as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How old are Colress and Grimsley supposed to be, anyway?? I don't think there's any canonical info about that. In my head they're both somewhere in their early to mid 30s by the events of SUMO, but I've seen all sorts of different headcanons.


	4. CHAPTER 4.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a not-so-old friend makes a comeback and makes Grimsley a proposition he really should refuse. And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter, we’re almost there! Even though I’m thinking about adding a short epilogue with some dialogue I had to scrap from the other chapters mmmh…we’ll see.

Summer ends, with no perceptible change in temperatures but a definite one in Grimsley's mood. For the worst, needless to say.

The challengers are now few and far between, and although there are good days in which they don't allow him to get bored enough to feel the need for a drink or a high-stakes card game he keeps catching himself fidgeting with his lucky coin more often than he would like to admit.

It's all downhill from there.

The regulars at the bars he had almost stopped frequenting him greet him like an old friend, but know better than to fall for his tricks. They steer clear of his table, leaving him to look for possible preys among the unlucky foreigners who make the grave mistake of striking up a conversation with him.

The state of apathy he wallows in between one game and the next, however, doesn't prevent him from noticing the change in the air.

The relaxed, cheerful atmosphere he's come to associate with Alola is disrupted by the sudden appearance of packs of young trainers in matching tattoos and ripped sweatpants who fancy themselves rebels simply because they like to pick on the elderly, steal from kids, and brag about their pokémon's ruthless exploits in battle. The sort of street gang he wouldn't have raised an eyebrow at in Unova, but feels out of place, if not outright sinister, on a peaceful island like Ula'ula.

Grimsley doesn't let himself be involved. He hadn't back home when Team Plasma had taken over, putting not the serenity of a small island but the fate of an entire region at stake, he has even less reasons to do so this time around. He was too busy driving himself to ruin, then, and is too busy picking up the pieces now. Besides, he has no intention to make himself more enemies if he can avoid it.

Speaking of enemies – one of them has been irritatingly persistent, as of late. Despite the local police receiving more and more calls by the day, he finds officer Nanu sitting at a secluded table at his usual venues almost every other night. Mostly he just watches, waiting for him to make a faux pas, a miscalculation that will warrant immediate arrest or a hefty fine they both know he has no way of paying.

Eventually, he approaches him right as he's counting the money he's managed to win from a clueless Kantonian couple, one elbow resting the counter as the bartender hastens to prepare his order.

"Get your cards," he tells him. No greeting, no introductions, straight to the point.

"Why hello, officer, care to make a wager?" Grimsley's smug grin doesn't waver. He'll have to try harder if he wants to intimidate him. He makes his deck of cards disappear, nonetheless.

"I told you what would happen if I kept receiving complaints. They had stopped for a while, but they've spiked up again in the last weeks. The Liepard cannot change its spots, isn't that what they say?"

"I've done my homework," Grimsley cuts in. "Gambling is not illegal as per Alolan law. Until you or the lovely people who come visit you at the precinct in the hopes of getting their money back can prove I've been cheating, there's nothing to be done about it."

"Nothing to be done about it, _yet_ ," Nanu corrects him. "You should have seen the last guy we questioned. He kept going on and on about how he won't hesitate to call his lawyer if we don't step in. It's only a matter of time before we find something we can work with. My advice is you cut it before it's too late."

"Are you threatening me, officer?" He asks, feigning amusement to conceal the pang of worry that goes through his chest. "Never mind. If I can offer my advice in return, I believe you and your men should be going after those punks who keep disrupting the peace, instead of bothering a law-abiding citizen trying to get by."

He must have touched an exposed nerve, because instead of nagging him with further accusations, the officer lets out a long, tired sigh.

"It's the first time we've had anything like that. And it's not just here, the other islands too. We did some investigating and we have reason to believe there's more to them than just their bad-boys shtick. But without concrete evidence we can only punish them for minor offences and then let them go." Grimsley can recognise exhaustion when he sees it. He would maybe go as far as to feel an ounce of empathy, if he wasn't trying to take away his only mean of survival. "It's not as easy as you'd think."

Grimsley's lips curl into a sneer. "I bet."

The exchange is interrupted by a loud crash, the unmistakeable sound of a window shattering into pieces. The bartender curses under her breath, setting the bottles she was handling aside to go and inspect the damage. In the meantime, whatever has made its entrance in such a destructive way has started flying in circles around the room, disoriented.

Grimsley glances down. Ears perked up and tails swaying, Liepard is ready to pounce. The officer makes to send out one of his pokémon, but he stops him with a gesture of his hand. "I've got this."

Sure enough, after a brief nod of his head, Liepard is onto her prey. The poor thing is fluttering its wings in wild panic, letting out sharp cries at intervals. Nothing it can do to escape the firm grip of Liepard's teeth, clamped down on its neck feathers.

"Easy," Grimsley tells her, extending a hand so that she can deposit the struggling Pidove on it. "There we go. Good girl!"

"Odd," Nanu muses. "We don't have those around here. It must have gotten separated from its flock, somehow. We should check for injuries, and then--" the beep of his walkie-talkie overrides the end of his sentence. From the one-sided conversation that follows, it's clear that his presence is urgently required elsewhere. "I have to go," then, pointing a finger at him as if to underline the seriousness of his warning: "This isn't the end of our conversation."

"Of course. You know where to find me," Grimsley says, making a mental note to stick to the bars near the beach and avoid the ones closer to downtown, at least for a while.

Looking down at the bird pokémon squirming in his grip, something strange catches his attention. The Pidove keeps pecking at his hand as he unties the thin piece of cord keeping a slip of paper secured around one of its legs, until he releases it on the counter where it immediately starts preening its feathers. Once unfolded, it's revealed to be a...larger piece of paper with a paragraph written in elegant, neat handwriting.

_Dear friend,_

_I hope this message finds you well! I realised too late that you never told me if you have access to a phone or any another device we could have used to keep in touch. This method is a bit old-fashioned, I know, but the owner assured me that his Pidove has been delivering messages for the townspeople for decades and is trained to locate and recognise the intended recipient on the basis of a simple physical description. So I guess it should work? I digress. I wanted you to know that I'll soon be back in Malie for a few weeks, and that I might need your assistance with matters that I won't disclose yet. We'll have more than enough time to talk about it face to face. If you're not otherwise engaged, you can meet me at the ferry terminal on the 26th at around midday, hoping you receive this letter before that date._

_\- C._

_P.S. Keep an eye on your coins, the Pidove likes shiny things._

Grimsley doesn't even notice the small pokémon taking flight with one of his ten-pokédollars coins in its beak.

"What day is it?" He asks no-one in particular.

The voice of a patron coming from one of the tables to his left offers a tentative answer. "Uuuh...the 26th? I think?"

He turns to cast a quick look at the clock hanging on the wall. 11:30 AM. Grinning like a fool, he stashes the letter in the sleeve of his kimono along with his spare aces and makes a break for the door, unsound to the shrill voice of the bartender asking him if he has any intention to pay for his unfinished drink.

Grimsley decides the moment he sees him disembark from the ferry that there's very few things more comical than Doctor Chrome in weather appropriate attire. His coat is gone, replaced by a combination of short-sleeved shirt with dark green silhouettes of palm trees printed on and grey beach shorts worthy of the most fashion-inept tourist.

"Finally going native, I see," he teases.

"The cooling mechanism in my suit broke after an unexpected encounter with a water-type Pokémon, and all my other clothes are a little too warm for comfort. I ordered the spare parts I need to repair it, but until they get shipped from Kalos this is what I'm stuck with."

"For the record, green is not your colour. I mean, _really_ not your colour."

"Noted. I'll make sure not to walk into any shops without your supervision then," Doctor Chrome glances out of the huge glass windows at the scorching sun shining in the middle of a clear sky. "If I survive the day without roasting alive, that is."

As he helps him with his luggage, which has grown both in number and in size since the last time they’ve seen each other, Grimsley makes sure to share with him a useful trip for survival in the Alola region: never leave your house without sunscreen. It's a lesson he has learned the hard way on his very first week. The doctor's complexion is as pale as his own, if not paler, and though it would be fun indeed to see him sport hideous tan lines at the end of the day, he knows the torture of having your burnt skin peeling off your flesh all too well to purposefully inflict it on someone else. Much less someone he has grown somewhat fond of.

"Careful with that!" Doctor Chrome calls out, seeing him stumble under the unexpected weight of one of his suitcases.

Grimsley somehow manages to keep his balance, eyes wide in disbelief. "Any specific reasons why you're travelling with what I can only assume is a pile of bricks in your suitcase?"

The doctor huffs out a little laugh. "The weight of knowledge, my friend. That, and a few prototypes I've been working on on the side. Here, like this we should..."

It takes an awful lot of coordination for them to succeed in lifting the suitcase, each of them grabbing one of the two handles, and and making some progress outside ferry terminal. They apparently make for a pretty peculiar picture, as small groups of people turn around to look at them as they pass by and a young teen surrounded by her group of friends snaps a photo of them with her camera. The city-bound coach is already full when they make it to the bus stop, with dozens of sweating tourists squeezed together inside the departing vehicle.

"When's the next one?" Doctor Chrome asks, already out of breath.

Grimsley looks over at the timetable. "Forty-five minutes."

They exchange a glance. It's one of those days when not even the shade provided by the local vegetation seems to offer any relief from the suffocating heat. So much so, that Liepard starts to meow loudly in complaint until she gets Grimsley to return her inside her pokéball.

"On foot it is."

The air conditioning inside the hotel is a blessing. As much as he'd like to help him out with getting settled in his new room, Grimsley ends up collapsing on the nearest armchair with a sigh of relief, enjoying the break from the scorching sun outside, as well as his chance to observe the good doctor as he goes about unpacking his belongings with the help of his Beheeyem. To no-one's surprise, Doctor Chrome is extremely methodical in everything he does, unwilling to leave anything up to chance, not even the order in which his socks are rearranged in the drawers. A unique sneak peek into his private life, revealing further details about his character, like his tendency to mumble to himself when he gets too engrossed in completing a task, even as simple as choosing how to hang his clothes in the wardrobe.

He does try to take a brief look at the contents of the other suitcase, at some point, only managing to catch a glimpse of assorted pieces of machinery. Not enough to satisfy his curiosity, but definitely enough for Doctor Chrome to surprise him in the act and shoo him away with polite yet firm attitude, along with a half-hearted promise that it will all come together in due time.

"What is that?"

"That," the doctor tells him. "Is part of the reason why I need your help."

Grimsley considers his answer. He's always been inept with anything technological that goes beyond Xtransceivers and slot machines, which brings him to wonder whatever might he want from him in particular. "Might I remind you that my rates are pretty high? I can't go around offering my services for free, now, you understand."

It's a joke, obviously. He's unsure whether Doctor Chrome interprets it as such, though, because rather than smiling or responding with a sarcastic remark of his own he makes a gesture as if to subtract importance to the matter. "We'll have time to discuss that. No rush. First, I wanted us to do some catching up. What do you say to a trip to Sushi High Roller, my treat?"

How is he supposed to say no to that?

As per Doctor Chrome's request, they've relocated to a more isolated area by the Malie Gardens, where the gentle breeze offers some respite from the nigh-unbearable heat of the early afternoon. The perfect place to wait out the warmest hours of the day.

Liepard has taken a liking to him, which is not surprising. She has always sported a blatant preference for polite, soft-spoken individuals who respect her right to decide when she wants to be pet and when she'd much rather go without. She may not understand the complexity of human language, but Grimsley suspects she has a way of interpreting the praise the doctor has been lavishing upon her at every chance. She's sitting between them, now, chin resting on her front paws, enjoying the gentle brushing of his fingers along the patterns of yellow fur on her back.

Grimsley himself is in a similar state of bliss. Stomach full of the best sushi he has had in a while and having forgotten all about the enigmatic reasons why he has contacted him in the first place, he finds himself close to dozing off with the distant calls of the wild pokémon chasing each other in the tall grass. Doctor Chrome's voice reaches out to him just in time to wrench him out of the clutches of sleep and bring him back to Earth.

"What do you know about the Aether House?"

Without opening his eyes, Grimsley allows himself a few seconds to think. He's heard of the Aether Foundation, of course, the opposite would have been weirder. Anyone who's lived for any amount of time in Alola is bound to have stumbled upon their uniformed volunteers, or at least have seen the posters advertising the possibility to make a donation to help them fight for their good cause. What said cause is, though, he would be hard-pressed to tell.

"It's an orphanage."

"And?" Doctor Chrome urges him on.

Grimsley turns his head to look at him. "A...safe haven for the weak and the abandoned? I don't remember the slogan exactly. Something about helping those who need it the most. You know, the usual vague do-gooder kind of motto. My bet is on a tax shelter."

The doctor considers his answer in silence, nodding faintly to himself once he appears to have reached a satisfying conclusion. "You don't suppose it's guarded, then?"

"I don't see why--" Realisation hits him halfway through his sentence. The perplexed frown distends, replaced by a conniving smirk. " _Oh my_. What are you scheming, doctor?"

Instead of answering directly, Doctor Chrome takes a detour. "There's a reason why I'm asking for your help and not anyone else's, besides the obvious fact thar you're the only person I've managed to build some sort of relationship with since I moved here. I made my assessment, but feel free to tell me if I'm wrong. You're a risk taker, someone who doesn't mind walking the line between legal and illegal, you're too used to lying for your own good and are even more used to keeping secrets, especially your own. You're in sore need of money, at the moment, but what you need the most is an outlet for your pent-up energy. What you're missing is the thrill, the adrenaline, however you want to call it."

Grimsley would have laughed, if the portrait Doctor Chrome has just painted of him didn't correspond to the harsh truth. Rendered speechless by sheer accuracy of his analysis, it takes him several minutes to stop staring at the other man as if he had just taken a peek through his very soul and find his voice again. "I really left a bad impression, didn't I?"

"Depends on your definition of bad," he says, reiterating the same phrase he had offered him day after their first meeting. "You're probably wondering where I'm going with this. The short version is – my latest research project involves building a machine to investigate the possibility of travelling between worlds. I did some digging and found that the Aether Foundation has a history of working with creatures coming from different universes. I have reasons to believe they keep copies of their research logs somewhere at the Aether Paradise. It's only sensible. No-one would go looking for them in what for all intents and purposes is a shelter for orphaned kids and pokémon, not to mention how no researcher worthy of this name would dream of keeping the only copies of their work on an artificial island in the middle of the ocean, with all the possible accidents that could occur. I need those logs to perfect my machine."

Grimsley is sure he's missing something. Or rather, he knows where this is going but part of him hopes he's mistaken. The idea of a heist sounds ridiculous, no other way to put it. He'd never had pictured the doctor embarking in such a reckless endeavour, which only goes to prove how little he really knows of about his dear friend compared to the intimidating amount of correct information he's been able to uncover about him by means of a few weeks of mutual acquaintance and some good old guesswork.

"Wouldn't it be easier to ask to get access to the files? I thought the scientific community was pretty open when it comes to sharing resources with other experts."

"Normally yes," Doctor Chrome concedes. "But they refused my request when I submitted it under my current pseudonym and trying again with my real name would put me in a – let's say complicated position. My identity is attached to practices I don't condone anymore."

Discomfort is evident both in his voice and on his face as he utters the last admission. _Now, this is interesting._ Grimsley knows he's never been closer to getting him to open up about his life back in Unova, an opportunity he's unwilling to pass up. "Is that the hint to a dark and troubled past I'm hearing?"

"I wouldn't say dark, but troubled could be an accurate way to describe it, yes. I made some questionable career choices, that's about it," he simply states, without bothering to elaborate further.

Grimsley is dying to know more, but something tells him that insisting now would be like talking to a wall. Besides, direct confrontation isn't his strong suit. His abilities lie in luring his opponents into a false sense of security until they feel comfortable enough to spill their guts and hand over even their best-kept secrets. The timing just isn't right for that.

The doctor takes advantage of his momentary hesitation to redirect the conversation. "I've built a device to conceal myself. It's only a prototype, but the tests I've been conducting on my own have shown excellent results. The only obstacle I've encountered so far is with psychic and ghost-type pokémon. I'm not sure yet, but my best guess is that their heightened sense of perception helps them see through the disguise. This is where you come into play. I need you to provide a distraction in case we bump into any such obstacles. I'm sure Liepard will have no problem dealing with them."

Hearing herself be called upon, Liepard raises her head and lets out low meow of confirmation.

"They're bound to notice something is missing, and when they do they'll call the police. I don't know if you guessed that too, but they don't like me much. Actually, they're probably racking their brains for an excuse to put me in cuffs as we speak."

"I'm not going to steal anything. I just need to download the files. If everything goes according to plan, they won't even notice a single thing before we're back in Malie. We'll be each other's alibi in case they get the police involved, but I doubt they will."

"And if it doesn't?" Grimsley retorts.

The calm written upon Doctor Chrome's features is at complete odds with his absurd proposition as he says: "I guess we'll have to improvise. My Beheeyem has gotten me out of tight spots before, he can teleport us out if things get dire."

It shouldn't be an appealing prospect. It really shouldn't.

He already has the police watching him like a flock of angry Staraptors, and that's not even mentioning how a few of his creditors could be lurking behind every corner in wait for him to make a wrong move. And yet a part of him, the one that used to relish in the odds stacking against him one after the other, the one he had sworn to keep under lock and key when he had bought a one-way ticket to Ula'ula, can't help but find the prospect enticing. If he has to end up in jail anyway, he might as well do it in style.

"They say there's a fine line between genius and stupidity," Grimsley says, as if acknowledging the absurdity of the situation out loud can somehow excuse him for making what may very well be the umpteenth spur of the moment decision he'll grow to regret. "I thought I knew which side you were on, but now? I'm not so sure."

"It's the way the world works, it would be pretty boring if we knew everything we need to know right from the start, no?" Grimsley doesn't really know what to say to that. Fortunately, the following question calls for a more straightforward answer. "So, can I count on you?"

The genuine gratitude on the other man's face after he tells him that, yes, he can count on him is worth a thousand "thank you"s. The way Doctor Chrome smiles and squeezes his hand prompts a foreign if pleasant heat to start coiling in his guts, and Grimsley is relieved to have more than enough to worry about, now that he has agreed to accompany him, because otherwise he'd have to ponder the implications. He wouldn't know what to make of the minute shiver that runs down his spine at the contact with the doctor's bare hand, slightly cold but not unpleasant, now that the barrier of his gloves isn't there.

"I suggest we take a day or two to perfect our strategy, no need to rush into it. And I do need to make some preparations."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, we wait for the temperatures to become acceptable – and by acceptable I mean not liable to boiling us alive – then we can take a walk around town and you can help me pick some nicer clothes, since you're so concerned with my fashion choices."

Grimsley chuckles. "Sounds like a plan."


	5. CHAPTER 5.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which almost nothing goes according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! Like I anticipated in the notes of the pervious chapter, I'm most likely going to add a short epilogue to wrap everything up more neatly, but I don't know when I'll be posting it just yet since it still needs some polishing. In the meantime, I'm gonna the opportunity to thank everyone who's been following along, ESPECIALLY to those who commented. I really didn't expect this level of positive response for such a rare pair, so thank you guys!

Grimsley shifts around a bit, seeking better cover behind the trunk of a large tree.

He's wearing a mismatch of articles of clothing belonging to three different suits, the only way to achieve an all- black ensemble to blend in with the surroundings after sundown, with his favourite scarf pulled up over the lower half of his face. He hasn't paid attention to his reflection in the water as they approached their target, but he's pretty sure he looks like a thug. A stylish thug, perhaps, but a thug nonetheless.

Doctor Chrome, for his part, well…doesn't look like anything. With a simple input typed on a remote-like device, he's disappeared entirely from view, leaving Grimsley to turn around in confusion until he tapped him on the shoulder to show him that he was, indeed, still there. He had _tried_ illustrating the working principles of his creation, but all Grimsley had been able to grasp in the midst of what he can only define as “a whole lot of techno-babble” was that the machine manipulates the refraction of light sources effectively concealing anyone or anything that remains in its general vicinity.

The only sign of the doctor's presence beside him among the bushes is the quiet sound of his voice in his ear, as they observe the busy coming and going of children and caretakers around the entrance of the Aether House, the last bursts of activity before everyone retires for the night. "There's an Oranguru at the front desk."

"What is it doing there?"

"Secretarial work, I presume," the look Grimsley shoots in his direction is eloquent enough for him to add: "Don't look at me like that, it's a very intelligent species. Too intelligent, in fact. Do you think you and Liepard can handle it?"

Grimsley snorts. "I'm going to pretend that was a rhetorical question."

One by one, the lights at the windows of the upper floor are turned off, one for each resident finally going to sleep. They wait an additional twenty minutes or so, to account for any light sleepers who might be alerted by the inevitable noises of the pokémon at the reception being taken down and hurried footsteps running around the facility.

"Alright, then," Doctor Chrome says, after what feels like an eternity and a half lying in wait for the right time to take action. "Whenever you're ready."

The first part of the plan goes off without a hitch. Grimsley sends Liepard forward, her Double-Team attack soon attracting the pokémon stationed inside, who leaves its position at the acceptance desk to investigate. The air moves somewhere behind him, signalling that Doctor Chrome has taken advantage of the distraction he has provided him with to walk inside and start with his search. When Liepard's illusion dispels, it doesn't take long for the Oranguru to locate the real threat, but it's already too late.

The psychic-type pokémon is quickly dealt with – intelligent species or not, Liepard is still fast enough to catch it off guard and let the type advantage do the rest. In the blink of an eye, the only obstacle separating the doctor from whatever he hopes to find among the classified documents of the Foundation is lying on the floor, unconscious. With a silent gesture, Grimsley commands Liepard to drag the fainted pokémon behind the desk.

Although he knows how dangerous it is to let optimism cloud his judgement, he can't help but congratulate with himself, noting how the task has been a lot easier than he had anticipated. Alas, tempting fate has never done anyone any good, and before he has the chance to proceed with the next part of the plan, which in his case involves patrolling the building to fend off other potential threats, the LEDs overhead flicker on, bathing the room in yellow light.

Grimsley squints, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. Standing in front of him is a little girl in cutesy pink sleepwear, with a Stufful plushie clutched tight to her chest. The shocked expression painted on her face must be a good match for his own, as he finds himself struggling to do or say anything sensible. The girl looks at him, then over his shoulder at where Liepard still has her teeth clamped around the scruff of the Oranguru's neck, then back at him. Her eyes are blown wide, looking seconds away from filling with tears.

_Oh no._

"Who are you? What happened to the Headmaster?!"

"He's just tired," Grimsley rushes to answer, lowering his scarf under his chin in an attempt at giving himself a friendlier appearance. He kneels down, so that he's at her same level. "He's taking a nap, you see? He's been working all day, he needs some rest. And something tells me you do too. Why don't you go back to your room and--"

The child ignores his suggestion, brows furrowing in a petulant frown. "Who _are_ you, sir?"

Grimsley can almost hear the cogs and gears in his brain turning at full speed to compile a list of the most plausible excuses he could offer her to justify his presence and ensure she goes back to bed without pestering him further and, most important of all, without alerting the adults.

Kids! Why did it have to be kids? Full grown men and women are straightforward enough in the way they think, surprisingly easy to manipulate provided you know which buttons to push, but children? A child's mind works in unfathomable ways. There's no predicting whether they'll fall for the first lie you feed them or if they'll keep asking questions for hours on end until you'd rather tell them the truth than endure a second more of their relentless interrogation.

"I'm, er...the new night guard. Didn't your caretakers tell you?" The girl shakes her head, so he continues. "They hired me to protect you and the other children from those big bad people with strange hair and tattoos. I'm sure you've seen them around."

Though still wary of him, the little girl nods. "They're a bit scary. Miss Jackson told us to stay away from them, and to call her if we see them near the House."

"She's right!" Grimsley exclaims, immediately remembering he should really keep his voice down if he doesn't want to attract further attention. "They're very bad people, always bothering young trainers and their pokémon. But since I'm here, now, you have nothing to be afraid of. Understood?"

The girl nods again, this time risking a smile. She opens her mouth to say something, but her focus shifts elsewhere. Following her gaze, Grimsley sees that she's staring at Liepard in what can only be described as utter amazement. Every last shred of fear vanished, she now looks mesmerized, as if she has never seen a creature quite like her before. To be fair, Grimsley reasons, Alola isn't renowned for its feline pokémon population and she couldn't be more different from its resident Meowth and Persian species.

"Is that your pokémon?"

"She is," he confirms. Given the way her eyes are sparkling, it's not that difficult to tell what she's thinking. "Do you want to pet her?"

The reaction to his offer is as immediate as it is full of unrestrained excitement. "Can I? Oh please, please, can I?"

"Sure."

Grimsley gestures for Liepard to come closer, which she does albeit with mistrust evident in every step she takes to approach the tiny human. Ears flat against the top of her head, she's clearly not a fan of the idea of letting an unknown child touch her, so he reaches out to soothe her with a quick scratch under her chin. Liepard blinks, never letting the little girl escape her attentive gaze.

"Like this," he instructs her, rubbing Liepard's back with deliberately careful movements, to make sure she understands the importance of being gentle. "Slowly. She's more delicate than she lets on."

She's hesitant, at first, but gentle enough to prompt him to let out the breath he didn't even know he was holding. Liepard has never been fond of small children, but the fact that she hasn't sliced the kid's arm open with her claws is encouraging. Grimsley can't blame her. All the children she's ever encountered have been rather...rambunctious in their displays of affection. They somehow managed to pet her all in the wrong places and more often than not ended up pulling on her tail and ears to get her attention, which he can't imagine being very pleasant.

"Wow, she's so pretty!"

"Isn't she just?" Grimsley chuckles. "Now, are you ready to go back to be--"

"I can't sleep."

He exchanges a look with Liepard, who offers him the feline equivalent of a shrug as if to say _what am I supposed to do? Sing her a lullaby?_

"How so? Are you scared of the dark? Or is it something else? Is it ghosts?" He asks, feigning deep concern as he turns around to face the girl once more. The shy little nod he gets in response tells him he has hit the mark. "Look, Liepard and I are going to keep guard for the entire night and if any ghosts come by, we'll scare them so bad they'll run away and never come back."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

Right as he's starting to wonder if he should hug her or something to persuade her to return to her room already, a noise like rustling fabric is heard coming from upstairs. Liepard's ears twitch.

"What was that?"

"Oh, that's just Mimikyu," the little girl says.

"Mimikyu?"

"Yes!" the little girl launches into a spiel so quick and packed with words that he struggles to follow. "He's a foundling, just like me and my friends! That's what our teacher said when she brought him here. She said he could live here with us and we could learn how to look after a pokémon, so that we already know what to do if we want to become trainers when we're older. He's very sweet, always helping me and the others out with our homework. Oh, and he's a ghost-type, too, but like not one of the scary ones. He doesn't like strangers, though."

As if on cue, the weird noise is heard again, followed by the startled yelp of another Pokémon. Or another human, it's hard to say for sure. Liepard is in full defence mode, now, purple fur bristling, fangs on display. The lights flicker once, twice, above their heads.

"Someone's made him angry."

Grimsley doesn't have the time to process the ominous implications of the girl's statement that the air is filled with the sound someone descending the stairs in a hurry. He stumbles to his feet, an invisible force pulling him towards the exit by the sleeve of his jacket, threatening to send him into a fit of wild panic before a familiar voice reaches his ears. " Beheeyem is out of commission, we have to make a break for it!"

"How--"

"A not very happy pokémon hiding behind the cabinets. _Run_!"

He can't even begin to imagine how the impressionable mind of a child with a phobia of ghosts will interpret the scene that is unfolding before the girl's eyes – the kind stranger who had vowed to protect her beig dragged away by an invisible force while a seemingly disembodied voice shouts at him to flee. Whatever pity Grimsley might feel for her is overshadowed by the pity he will feel for _himself_ if he lets himself be caught and thrown into a holding cell without fanfare.

So run he does, with Liepard in tow.

They don't stop running, not when the entire upper floor of the building lights up and a dozen or so different voices start calling out to each other wondering what just happened, not when their frantic escape scares a pack of wild Rattata that scatter in all directions, not even when the lack of artificial lighting makes their surroundings so dark that not tripping on any of the rocks and upturned roots that litter their path becomes an impossible feat.

The poor doctor is still panting when they come to a halt in the middle of the old ruins that make up what remains of the abandoned Tapu Village. The Pokémon Centre, the only building that usually brings some life to the place, is closed for the night, only the sparse lampposts providing some light. Grimsley can't see him, but he can hear him fighting to catch his breath a few feet away. He himself isn't nearly as tired. In fact, if he expected to collapse on the ground as soon as they stopped moving, he's pleasantly surprised to notice that he feels like he'd have the energy to go on for miles. Years of escaping unnoticed from his creditors' underlings must have paid off. 

With a mechanical beep the invisibility device is turned off and Doctor Chrome appears next to him, a huge ecstatic grin pulling at the corners of his lips. "I've got them! They're-- incredible, I didn't have time to read everything through, but--"

"Breathe, doctor," Grimsley has to remind him. "Breathe."

"Yes, yes, of course. You're right."

He does just that, taking some time to calm himself down before shifting his attention towards the pokémon lying in his arms. Beheeyem looks close to fainting, not even strong enough to keep himself hovering in the air. Doctor Chrome sets him down gently on the dry grass, earning a grateful chirp. Then, he starts digging into his pockets for a remedy that will help him restore his strength.

Grimsley leaves him to it. He goes to check on Liepard, who appears to be better off than any of them. She's grooming herself, nonchalant, wetting one of her paws with her tongue before rubbing it over her head and between her ears to smooth the fur down. It's a display Grimsley has always found relaxing. He watches her for a while, leaning back against the wall of what once was a house or a small shop, until she eventually comes to rub her cheek against his knees.

"You've been amazing out there," he praises her. "Want to go back to your pokéball and rest?"

The following meow is no doubt a yes, so he complies.

"He'll recover soon," Doctor Chrome says, coming to stand with him against the ruined façade, a few moments later. "We only have to let him be, wait for the Potions to take effect. He'll be able to takes us back to Malie in no time."

Grimsley gives a noncommittal hum.

"I believe I owe you an explanation," the doctor carries on.

"I'm inclined to agree."

"Let's say I haven't been the best judge of character, when it comes to the people I used to associate with," _Me neither_ , Grimsley wants to say, but the doctor continues before he has the chance to. "I reckon you are...what did you call it? Ah, yes, an excellent secret keeper. Then I only ask you to keep what I'm going to tell you for yourself. And I understand if you won't want to associate with me, after tonight."

Grimsley doesn't remember a single instance in which he's been pinned down by such piercing stare. Mouth a little dry, he tells him what he wants to hear. Not like he has any other choice.

"Your secrets are safe with me, doctor," all of a sudden, he's overtaken by the need to defuse the tension. He's not good at serious talks, never has been. "Unless, say, a wealthy stranger approaches me offering a couple million pokédollars in exchange for information on a certain foreign scientist who has been seen wandering around Alola, then maaaybe..."

It works, even if not as well as he had hoped. Doctor Chrome's features soften, but there's no hint of his usual smile. He adjusts his glasses with a nervous movement, unable to conceal his sudden discomfort. There's only so far he can push them up the bridge of his nose, anyway. "My real name is Colress. I led the research and development unit of Team Plasma for four years. I was the commander of the Plasma Frigate--"

"The disaster of Opelucid City," Grimsley murmurs. He didn't mean to interrupt him, but the name conjures one of the most vivid memories he retains from the months preceding his downfall, his fellow Elite Four shaking him awake to show him the newscast footage of a giant aircraft hovering over a city encased in ice. Beautiful in its own haunting way.

"Yes. And everything that came before that," he carries on. "I don't suppose you can guess how difficult it is to obtain a research grant, nowadays, especially if you don't have any references to speak of. I chose the easy route. The leader of Team Plasma all but begged me to offer him my expertise, promising me everything I would need for my research as a token of his gratitude. I never liked him or his followers much, delusional fools poisoned by mystic nonsense the lot of them, but I didn't care. I had my founds, I had my tools, I had dozens of assistants at my disposal. It was enough for me to pretend to be invested in their plans."

He hesitates, the fingers of his right-hand clenching and unclenching around nothing, perhaps suffering the absence of the distraction provided by his high-tech devices. It forces him to focus on his own thoughts, his own fallacies.

"I'd like to say that I had started distancing myself from them way before the organisation collapsed onto itself and the Interpol started hunting down the remaining affiliates, but lying kind of goes against the purpose of a confession. I only offered them my support when absolutely necessary to ensure they kept founding my projects, but I stuck around until the very end, hoping I could salvage the few results I had managed to obtain. It all went lost after the authorities raided their base. Some might call it karma."

It's been ages since Grimsley has allowed himself to let someone talk without judging, without his mind running a mile a minute to come up with hundreds different ways to use each tidbit of information to his advantage. How could he, a coward that hides and shakes at the thought of his past debts catching up to him, who'd rather spend the rest of his life running from the consequences of his actions rather than facing them head-on? He doesn't know if Colress thinks of himself as some kind of monster for having turned a blind eye to his benefactor's true intentions but, as far as he's concerned, his tale entirely more understandable and compassion-worthy than the one of spoiled heir of a rich family who squandered his inheritance for the sake of escaping the clutches of boredom.

"Do you think they're still after you? The Interpol, I mean."

"My official status in the organisation as a simple consultant made it so that I've been registered with a low threat level in their archives," a feeble smile graces his features, then. A bitter one, full of undisguised regret. "As long as I steer clear of Unova and don't contact any of my old colleagues I should be able to fly under the radar. And even then, I could try persuading them I had offered my contribution under duress. But it has resigned me to a worse fate, as far as I'm concerned. I can't apply for a place in a local research team, not with my real name. And if I did and someone was so naive to hire me out of pity, I would still be regarded with suspicion. No-one would risk entrusting me with any kind of high-responsibility job in the lab, I'd be little more than a glorified assistant. I know you're not familiar with the mechanisms of scientific research, but believe me when I say there's very little one can do without proper help and professional equipment. That's what I've been reduced to – stealing from other scientists in the hopes of finding something that will help me carry on a little longer."

Normally, Grimsley would have scoffed at anyone making such a tragedy of not being able to apply for the job of their dreams in exchange for their freedom. It would have sounded insincere coming from anyone else, pretentious even, but the sheer misery in the other man's voice wipes away any doubt about the fact that the prospect of having to leave his research plans behind worries him more than the idea of spending the rest of his days locked up in a tiny prison cell ever could.

"I'm not looking for your forgiveness," Colress concludes. "Yours or anyone else's. I just wanted you to know, because something tells me the same applies to you. Isn't that right, Mr. Grimsley?"

Grimsley's stomach drops. Flashing images of the last year or so resurface, unbidden, from his memory. All the measures he could have taken, all the missteps he could have avoided, all the tiny little pieces of personal information he could have easily kept to himself. The distance he might have, should have, put between himself and the man standing before him in the half-darkness. Hindsight, the curse of every gambler.

When he speaks, the tone of his voice is more of bitter resignation than real anger. "What gave me away?"

"An educated guess," Colress shrugs, far too modest in Grimsley's opinion. That, or he's been absolutely abysmal in hiding his identity. "Unovan citizen, a preoccupying taste for gambling, dark-type specialist. After the incident with the Rocket grunts I knew something didn't add up. I went back, looked at some old newspaper articles. An Elite Four vanishing into thin air is bound to get people talking. You look quite different from the last photos of you that I've managed to dig up online, though. If it makes you feel any better."

"And now you're blackmailing me," a statement, not a question. An accusation whose weight threatens to crush him. He doesn't know if he's more frustrated with himself and his own naivete, or with the doctor and his utter nonchalance in taking advantage of a clearly desperate man stranded in a foreign region.

Colress holds his hand out in a placating gesture. "I don't--"

"Wait, no, let me guess," he cuts him off before he can utter another word. "You brought me along as an insurance. If the police really does get involved, you'll set me up as the sole responsible for the break-in. Better yet, you'll threaten to sell me out to my creditors if I don't take the fall for you. Very smart, I can give you that."

Only then does he realise that the other man's expression has changed completely. There's no trace of the subtle smugness he had displayed in revealing he was one step ahead of him. Any hint of confidence gone, replaced by a slight frown that makes him look lost. Distraught. Heartbroken, almost.

"I--" he begins, pauses, rethinks. He's at a loss for words for the first time since he's met him. "I can see why you came to that conclusion, but I assure you it couldn't be further from my intentions."

Grimsley is sure he's shaking, by now. In anger or despair, though, he finds it hard to say. "Oh, _please_. You're smarter than that. Don't pretend you're not going to sell me to the highest bidder as soon as I'm not useful anymore."

"I might have considered the possibility, at first, it's true," Colress pauses, hesitates. "I realise it's not what you wanted to hear, I'm sorry. I'm not good with this kind of things."

What kind of things he is talking about, Grimsley is not sure. He's known him long enough to know there's very few of them he's not good at, whatever he may claim. He needs to call up on all of his self-control not to jump out of his skin whenever a shadow shifts around him under the moonlight. He fancies he can already hear police sirens screaming in the distance. Maybe worse. Like when his peripheral vision had been filled with non-existing Rocket uniforms and angry gambling ring owners for weeks on end. Before he was allowed some respite in the form of an unhoped-for diversion. Something – someone unknowingly coming to the rescue. The betrayal stings more than any wound he's ever sustained training the most unruly members of his team.

"Don't worry, it's never too late," he spits. "I'm sure some of my old acquaintances are still more than willing to offer you a handsome reward in exchange for the cheating bastard who disappeared with their money and tarnished their reputation."

Colress blinks back at him, dumbfounded, as if the concept itself was preposterous. "That's why I said _at first_. It didn't take me long to realise it was a ridiculous idea. I don't know who most of your creditors are or even how much you owe them. It's none of my business. When I arrived here, I needed subjects for my research and someone to help me adapt to life in Alola. I needed a friend, an ally. I...still do."

Grimsley almost wants to laugh. His mind struggles to wrap itself around the idea of someone stubbornly refusing to take advantage of such knowledge. Too good to be true. It would only take a word, with the right person, in the right circumstances. And who knows how many projects someone like him could found with the amount of money he would gain in return.

"In fact, I made sure to spread as much false information as I could regarding your whereabouts during my travels," Colress continues, taking advantage of his silence. "Just to be safe. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if something I did or said ended up causing you harm."

A small detail presses at the edges of his consciousness, begging for his attention. A small, fundamental detail he has overlooked in the haze of his anxiety: Colress is not a good bluffer. Oh, he could take all of his secrets to the grave with him if he so desired, but the moment he's required to mislead instead of omit, his attempts fall flat. There's no escaping his tells. Grimsley's eyes start looking for them – the ones he's teased him about, the ones he failed to eradicate from him when he taught them some tricks of the trade, the ones didn't mention out of pure self-indulgence because he would have hated to see him try to correct them.

There are none.

He opens his mouth to speak, but not a single sound comes out.

He has clung to the image of the heartless bastard out to deceive and rob anyone that happens to cross paths with him, only to let his guards down around the man who's offered him exactly what he has advertised: friendship free of charge and an easy way out from the dark, endless pit he had fallen into. He's gained his trust like it's the easiest thing in the entire world and Grimsley knows he should hate him for it, but he just can't. The thought scares him and excites him at the same time, like taking up a challenge when you know the odds of losing everything are much, much higher than those of you winning the game.

An impulse unlike any other he has experienced before threatens to take over. The impulse to lay himself bare, to pour his entire heart out. He wants to tell him everything. The story of how he risked his up until that moment brilliant career in the pokémon League for a handful of pokédollars he didn't really need. The story of his journey through the most infamous, seediest gambling dens in Unova and of his subsequent fall from grace. Of the euphoria he felt whenever he won a large sum and the utter shame he was filled with when lost everything in a single night. The story of the worried glances and encouraging words his fellow Elite Four would spare for him every time he stumbled into their meetings with the remnants of a sleepless night and too many losses written on his face, of the offers of help he always dismissed with a charming smile and mindless jokes. Of the deals he made with the higher-ups of more criminal organisations that he can count to try and scrape together enough money to repay his debts, just another game, just a few more tries, I promise I'll have them all by the end of the week. Until he didn't. And the only choice he had been left with was between disappearing and becoming a photograph in the newspaper to accompany an article recounting the tragic tale of a successful young man mysteriously found dead in his apartment.

There's only one thing holding him back: the excruciating effort he would have to make to meet Colress' gaze afterwards, with the possibility to find even the faintest trace of pity in his eyes. He can handle disgust and mockery, but pity? He's not sure. There will surely be a better time and place to recall his past than a supposedly haunted village in the middle of the night, he decides. An excuse like any other to avoid staring his own cowardice in the face, but it works.

Colress is still watching him, openly concerned, as if he was scared of having already lost him because of his inability to be anything but honest with him, and it's his turn to be heartbroken.

"We have more in common than we thought. Terrible at life choices, the both of us," Grimsley says then, with a levity that would be more appropriate for two old friends reminiscing about bygone times. Well, friends they are, though not exactly old. The weight pressing down his stomach has evaporated, leaving him with a feeling of carelessness he hasn't experienced in years.

Just like that, the anguish dissipates from Colress' features.

"Then you'll be happy to know that we have between thirty and fifty more years to learn, statistically speaking. Then again, it might be a rather optimist esteem, considering your penchant for thrill seeking and my tendency to get involved with terrorist organisations," he inches closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I'd say there's still hope for us."

Grimsley's next move is riskier than he'd want it to be. Much like everything else in his life, it's a gamble.

He's sure his heart skips a beat or two in the wait for Colress' reaction to him closing the distance in between them with the most cautious, tentative kiss he's ever given. It's no longer than a split second, the bare minimum for anyone to elaborate the situation and act accordingly, and yet it feels like ages before Colress kisses him back.

He kisses like he does everything else – he doesn't leave anything untried, thorough yet with a certain degree of restraint in his every movement. Grimsley intends to do everything in his power to change that. He deepens the kiss, relishing in the chocked-up moan that escapes him, taking it as his cue to be bolder. His efforts are rewarded in spectacular fashion when Colress' fingers dig into his shoulder through the fabric of his jacket, in a way that would be almost painful if it wasn't a testament to his desire.

They break apart for air, but linger close enough to feel each other's irregular breathing on their skin, foreheads barely touching.

"My, my, won't you look at that," Grimsley drawls, pleased with the flush on the other man's cheeks, visible even in the half-darkness. "He _is_ human after all. I was starting to wonder if you weren't one your beloved machines posing as a human being."

In spite of his flustered appearance, Colress still manages to summon enough poise to bite back, although maybe not as hard as he usually would. There's as much mischief in his eyes as there is fondness. "You really do love the sound of your own voice, don't you?"

Grimsley is about to reply that he can come up with a couple or so things he loves even more than that, but it seems like they both have the same idea in mind. They meet halfway, Colress wasting no time before wrapping his hand around the back of his neck to keep him right where he wants him – as if he has any intention to escape. There's something irresistible in the way he doesn't let any of his attempts at teasing go unpunished, nipping at his lower lip and tightening the already iron grip he has on him each time he pretends to be about pull away just to gauge his reaction. Only a matter of months before, Grimsley would have laughed if anyone had told him that he would meet his match in the weird scientist with a baggage of dubious research ethic and misguided past affiliations. And yet there's precious little he can do to ignore the pleasant shivers running down his spine, coherent thoughts erased by the softness of the other man's lips on his. At least until a sudden noise drags him violently back on Earth.

He recoils, startled, hitting his back hard against the brick wall. "For Arceus sa--"

His curse is cut off by a series of loud, insistent beeping sounds, as the creature floats up and down in the air between them. It's amazing how a pokémon with no expressive features other than a pair of fluorescent green eyes can manage to come off as _disapproving_.

"Oh dear, Beheeyem," Colress sighs, with the attitude of someone caught in a compromising position. Which, admittedly, isn't too far from the truth. The fact that he feels like he needs to justify himself with his own Pokémon, however, is rather amusing. "You didn't have to see that, I'm sorry."

"I don't think he knows what we were doing," Grimsley says, pretending to fix his scarf to conceal his own embarrassment.

"Oh, he does. Believe me, he does. Psychic types are, ah, rather perceptive when it comes to human and other pokémon's emotions," Colress states, fixing his crooked glasses with a swift movement. Turning towards his pokémon, he continues: "How are you feeling? Strong enough to bring us back home?"

The multicoloured lights on Beheeyem's hands (paws?) flash an incomprehensible sequence of greens and yellows. Well, incomprehensible to Grimsley. Colress hums in acknowledgement, the little display has told him everything he needed to know. He straightens up, dusting off his clothes as best as he can, before gesturing for him to do the same.

"Take one of his hands," he tells him then, gesturing towards his pokémon. "And hold on tight."

Grimsley complies, unthinking. He has no time to brace himself before the village around him fades into the background and his vision is blinded by white light. The first thought that occurs him, as the world slowly comes back into focus, is that he's thankful for his frugal dinner, or else he would already be emptying his stomach right under the great wooden arch that serves as the gates of Malie City.

"The first time is always a bit rough," Colress remarks somewhere behind him, unaffected judging by the calm tone of his voice. Placing a soothing hand between his shoulder blades, he waits patiently for him to recover, encouraging him to close his eyes and draw a couple more deep breaths before opening them again. Beheeyem has disappeared, probably returned to his pokéball.

The town is silent.

Grimsley has never stopped to contemplate the unique picture Malie makes under the moonlight, often too drunk or too lost in thought to bother lingering outside in the breeze before dragging his tired bones back home from the bar. Only now does he realise what he's been missing.

The absence of the usual chatter of people bustling about makes room for the soothing sound of the waves gently crashing ashore and for the occasional cry of wild pokémon calling out to each other in the darkness. The orange light of the lanterns swinging in the breeze casts strange shadows on the walls of the Johtonian-style houses all around, a captivating yet disquieting atmosphere that a dark-type enthusiast can't help but appreciate.

It's too late for Colress to check back in at his hotel, yet he doesn't appear to be concerned at all. He's become quiet, which is very uncharacteristic for him, but there's a spring in his step, now, along with a self-satisfied grin he can't seem to wipe off his face. It's only natural to wonder if it's more due to having finally obtained his precious research logs or to what has transpired between them at Tapu Village. Clues point towards the former, with him occasionally thinking out loud about the alterations he'll need to make to his machine in light of the new data, though Grimsley still hopes it's an even mixture of the two. He ponders whether it would be too forward to offer him a place to stay at his house. Maybe. Maybe he'll have to ask him if he's willing to settle for the battered couch in the living room, for the sake of not being too obvious.

His gaze wanders back towards him, and Grimsley has the fleeting impression that he's staring at his lips before he catches himself and adjusts accordingly, looking at him in the eyes when he thanks him for his assistance. Wishful thinking.

Or maybe not at all, since after a painfully contrived exchange of words about hospitality and not wanting to take advantage thereof he finds himself pressed up against the closed door, Colress clutching the fabric of his scarf like a lifeline as he kisses him deeper, more daring than before.

Half of him still struggles to rationalise the idea of him shedding his inhibitions for his benefit alone, right here, right now that all that is left of his old suave, charming self is conniving smiles and a handful of pretty words. The other half only wants to cast such foolish concerns to the wind and take everything Colress has to offer, no more hesitation, no regrets, before it's too late. The temptation to indulge his more reckless side is overpowering. If there's something Grimsley has learned from the long nights spent going back and forth between the roulettes and the poker tables, is that he's no good at resisting temptations.

He tilts his head to the side just so, prompting an appreciative hum from Colress at the change of angle. It's all muscle memory from there. Restless, he can't seem to decide whether to place his hands on his waist, on his shoulders, or in his hair. He's never felt so hungry. So much so that he can't bear the minute pause necessary to breathe, and immediately shifts to press a kiss under his jaw, then lower still, over the sliver of bare skin just above his collar.

Colress shudders against him. "Grimsley..."

The shaky quality of his voice makes Grimsley shiver in sympathy. He looks up, finding him in an alluring state of dishevelment, glasses slightly fogged and brown eyes alight with a desire that can't be mistaken for anything else. He wants to whisper cruel yet fond taunting words just to see if he'll have enough presence of mind to tease back or if it'll prove too much for his brain to elaborate and he'll be left flustered, unable to do much more than demand another kiss, and another. Either way, what a sight!

But Colress hasn't run out of aces up his sleeve, no, not yet. Before Grimsley has the chance to go through with this little experiment of his own, the air is knocked out of his lungs, the immediate effect of Colress tugging onto his scarf to pull him back in, with perhaps a bit too much force. The witty remarks he had been preparing are erased in that one gesture, substituted with a single word.

" _Please_ ," he gasps, not even sure what he's begging for, with a low, desperate pitch he would have found demeaning under any other circumstance. But not right now, never right now. The palm of Colress' right hand is pressed against his chest, only the light fabric of his shirt separating him from the bare skin beneath, no chance he's not feeling the furious beating of his heart.

He wonders where his pride is hiding, if he has any left or if he swallowed it all accidentally when being teleported back to Malie. Most surprising of all, he doesn't care. It's beautiful and terrifying at the same time, the sudden awareness that all he wants right now is to drop down on his knees before him and do unspeakable things to him. Or let _him_ do unspeakable things to him. Not wanting to waste any more time on his indecision, Grimsley decides to postpone the dilemma to when they've relocated to a more comfortable location.

His knack for telling apart other people's reactions and classing them in tiny little mental boxes for future use comes in handy once they make it to the bedroom, having crossed the corridor with no shortage of chuckling and stumbling on each other's feet and collapsed onto the mattress in a tangle of half-clothed limbs. He can't tell what works and what doesn't simply from observing the subtle changes in Colress' body language, like when his breath hitches in his throat or how how his muscles tense for a moment before relaxing again. And it's just as well, because along with his composure the good doctor has lost most of his impressive vocabulary as well, reduced to little more than "yes" and "don't stop" and various iterations of his name.

What he hasn't lost, however, is the barely restrained _need_ Grimsley had spied in his eyes. He's delightfully selfish, never letting him get further than necessary to change position or to remove another piece of clothing. Grimsley doesn't mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. He lets himself be pulled in again and again, because teasing him for his surprising lack of patience as he brushes his lips against his throat is fun, as is hearing the indignant huff he lets out in response, tightening the grip he has managed to get on his hair in swift retaliation. He can afford to be rougher – Grimsley almost wants to tell him, but he forgets everything the moment Colress' free hand finds its way inside his briefs.

It's almost a race until they reach mutual satisfaction in a haze of small gasps and hollow moans muffled against each other's skin. Grimsley would curse himself for not dragging it out a little longer, but he can't bring himself to be disappointed, not when a pleasant kind of tiredness is seeping through him like honey, down to his bones, filling him with a sense of absolute peace he had thought long forgotten. He musters enough strength to draw a path of small kisses from the underside of Colress' jaw down to the juncture between neck and shoulder, until wariness has the better of him and all he can do is lay his head on his chest, eyes fluttering closed.

"Still with me?" Colress asks after a while. Grimsley can't see him with his eyes closed, but the hint of amusement in his voice is unmistakable.

He hears himself mutter something in reply. He hopes Colress understands. Piecing together more than three words has become an impossible feat all of a sudden. And even if he had the entirety of his mental faculties at his disposal, he doubts he'd ever find a way to tell him just how good he feels, how strange it is to feel himself falling asleep so easily after struggling through an endless series of insomnia-plagued nights.

The feeling of his hand carding through his hair and the faint sound of his breathing is enough to soon lull him to sleep.

****

Waking up without the impression of his head being sawed in half and the urge to bury himself beneath the covers to escape the first rays of sunshine filtering through the curtains is a rarity, but a welcome one for sure. Grimsley feels unusually clear-headed, limbs aching still but in a somewhat pleasant way that doesn't have anything to do with the liquor or with him running away from an angry game partner trying to get their money back. The bed is still warm, irresistibly so. The temptation to linger a few minutes more, a few hours maybe, almost wins him over. What persuades him to pull himself up, rub the remnants of sleep off his eyes, and drag himself to the kitchen is the conspicuous absence of another sleeping body beside him.

It's what he expected, he tells himself. Unlike him, Colress is a busy man. No time for sleeping in, and if leaving at dawn can spare him the awkwardness of the morning after, even better. He's not _disappointed_ , is he? No, that would be stupid, naïve, and many, many other adjectives that don't suit him at all. They've had their fun. It's more than he could have asked for.

The sight he's greeted with as he stumbles into the adjacent room has Grimsley stopping dead in his tracks, right in the middle of the doorway.

Colress is leaning against the kitchen counter, holding a mug in one hand and balancing his tablet with the other. A coffee pot is steaming on one of the burners. He appears to not only have taken possession of the the place, but of part of his wardrobe as well – it doesn't take him long to recognise the dressing gown he's wearing, loosely tied over his undershirt, as one of his own.

"Good morning," he greets him, setting the tablet aside as soon as he notices his presence. "I helped myself to your cupboards, I hope you don't mind. I can't function without one of these first thing in the morning. I didn't want to wake you up."

He runs his free hand through his hair, a mechanical gesture meant to bring back some order in the mess of blond strands sticking in every direction, but to little avail. Grimsley doesn't even want to imagine what _he_ must look like, if that's the state the normally impeccable scientist has been left in. Even still, the sight has something endearing to it. The early morning sunshine, along with the uncharacteristic lack of professional attire, makes Colress look younger, softer somehow. Grimsley can only hope it has the same effect on himself. After letting the hair at his temples turn grey, he needs all the help he can get in that department.

"There's some coffee left in the pot, you look like you need it," Colress adds.

When he offers him a smile, Grimsley's heart does something strange inside his chest, making him fear, if only for a single moment, that months of heavy drinking have come to take their toll. It would be the worst luck he's had in a while, and that's saying something. Nothing of the sort happens, though he soon realises he's been standing completely still without saying a word for a bit too long.

"It's alright," he blurts out. He's so used to having to summon perfectly crafted smiles to lure in potential victims that a genuine one being pulled out of him feels like a novelty. "I'm sure I told you to make yourself at home, last night. Er... I'm sure I _wanted_ to tell you, I might have forgotten. My bad."

"Understandable. We were rather...preoccupied." The knowing glance Colress casts him is the same he had found himself on the receiving end of the night before, under very different circumstances. It has no right to make him feel so hot under the metaphorical collar. And yet.

"Yes, I suppose we were," he agrees with a chuckle.

Grimsley takes a seat at the table, not before making a small detour to grab a mug of his own and fill it with hot coffee. No sugar. His tablet and whatever he was doing with it forgotten, Colress mirrors him, claiming the remaining chair. It's bound to be awkward, Grimsley thinks. It _should_ be awkward, since they're both well over the acceptable age for one-night stands, but the wave of embarrassment he expected to wash over him is long coming.

"Since we're on the topic--"

"There's something I'd like to--"

They break the silence at the same time and the same time they cut themselves off, letting their voices fade out.

"No, no, go on. You first," Grimsley encourages him, bringing his mug to his lips to take a sip.

Letting the other man speak first means having more time to craft the perfect reaction to his inevitable rejection. _We're going a bit too fast_ , he's going to say, or _maybe yesterday was a mistake, shall we forget everything about it and star over?_ Either way, Grimsley will have to come up with an answer that will allow him to keep a shred of dignity, at least until he's left alone, free to find a way to drown his sorrows without having to worry about anyone's judgement. Terrible at life choices, the both of them. He's said so himself.

Colress nods, clearing his throat. "Alright."

Nervousness seeps from his every movement, from the way he fidgets with the coffee cup, to how he appears to avoid his gaze as he collects his thoughts. He takes his time finding the right words and, when he does, his speech comes out in a single breath. No pauses, no hesitations. Grimsley wonders if he's been rehearsing it.

"I hope I'm not misinterpreting any signals, here, but I wanted to clarify that I do find you attractive, and that I think I'm developing romantic feelings for you. I wouldn't mind this," he makes a vague gesture as if to encompass them both, as well as the entirety of the situation. "Becoming a regular thing. Only if you're amenable, of course."

Grimsley almost breaks into a fit of hysterical laughter out of sheer relief. He has to push the cup away and compel himself to swallow slowly, lest he ends up choking on his drink. He's more than _amenable_. Enthusiastic would be a more appropriate definition, in fact.

"Yes!" He stops, clears his throat in turn, realising that his voice was a little too loud and a little too excited. Sweet Arceus, what happened to his charming demeanour? "I mean, yes. The feeling is mutual. I apologise if I gave you reason to think otherwise, this is all...very new to me. You're welcome to laugh, now. I know there were rumours about my conduct back home in Unova, and I _might_ have fuelled them myself during my public appearances, but they were just that – rumours."

Colress doesn't laugh. He smiles bigger than ever, and his shoulders relax a little as if a weight has been lifted off his back. "It's settled, then. I don't know what I was worrying about."

It never ceases to amaze him how Colress can speak of anything and everything with the same inflection and vocabulary he would use while discussing one of his experiments. Grimsley might have to teach him a lesson or two in flirting, as soon as he regains some of his former confidence. The thought that he'll have unlimited time at his disposal to do precisely that fills him with giddy anticipation.

He leans in, unthinking, to brush his lips against the other man's. The table between them makes it kind of difficult to achieve a proper kiss, but he doesn't mind. It's the thought that counts.

"Distractions, distractions, Mr. Grimsley," Colress chides, with just the right amount of fondness in his voice, after he pulls back. "I suggest we finish up with our breakfast and get dressed. We have long day ahead of us. I need to start working on my machine and you have to take your first surfing class."

"I -- _what_?"

"I knew I was forgetting something," he reaches for his tablet, still lying on the kitchen counter, and hands it to him. "I signed you up for a free Mantine surf class. You kept mentioning how you were interested but never got around to trying it, so I thought I might give you a push in the right direction. Before you start complaining, yes, I signed you up under a false name and no, I don't think your creditors or whoever you're scared will come looking for you will be standing on the beach watching a bored former athlete teach a bunch of amateurs how to balance on the back of a water-type pokémon."

Grimsley skims through the webpage of the surfing school without really paying attention to the words nor to the beautiful pictures depicting white beaches and palm trees and happy surfers playing with their Mantines in the water. His brain is too busy making sense of what just happened – Colress doing something he thought might please him of his own initiative, without him asking him to, as if it was the most natural thing in the entire world. Perhaps it is, and he's simply not used to such unjustified kindness. In a flash, he's struck with the certainty that he'll never be able to drive a fair bargain. The best he can offer Colress in exchange is his undivided attention and unbridled affection. The thought doesn't scare him as much as he would have thought, however. It's been a while since he's had a goal different than tricking strangers into giving him enough money to survive another day.

He looks up from the screen, hiding the overwhelming weight of his emotions under a sly grin. "Any chance you'd be persuaded to join me?"

Colress snorts. "I admire your faith in my physical abilities, but I can't swim to save my life. Standing on a Mantine's back in the middle of the ocean is a catastrophe waiting to happen."

Girmsley clicks his tongue in mock-reproach. "Ah, you're no fun!"

"On the contrary, I'm a lot of fun. It just so happens that my definition of fun doesn't entail putting my own life in danger. Shall we agree to disagree?"

With that, he gets up, possibly to place his now empty cup in the sink to be washed at a later date. Before he does, though, Grimsley takes advantage of his momentary distraction to come around the table and squeeze him into a tight hug.

"I'll, uh...take this as a yes," he hears him mumble, breath warm against his cheek.

Grimsley holds him, perhaps for a little longer than necessary, but he can't bring himself to care. Not when Colress, having gotten over the initial startled reaction, is melting into the embrace, arms coming to wrap themselves around his middle.

"Of course we'll need to make some adjustments once you move away," he continues, finally getting to put away his mug after they break apart. "Depending on where and how far you're intending to settle down, I could find a way to visit, say, a couple of times a week? Sounds sensible."

Grimsley blinks back at him, sure he has missed something important along the way. An element, a piece of background information that would help him make some sense of Colress' talk of him leaving soon and whatnot. The fact that he's just woken up and the previous conversation is almost too good to be true don't help at all. For a single moment, he's seized by the fear of having dreamed it all up, of having reached that point where everything starts to get more and more surreal, leading to him jolting awake, drenched in sweat and with a lingering sense of melancholy that just won't leave.

"I'm not going anywhere," he manages to say.

"You're not?" A perplexed expression appears on Colress' face. "There's a suitcase by the door, I thought -- Forget it. I shouldn't have assumed."

Ah. So that's what it was all about. Grimsley himself had almost forgotten about it. His old worries and anxieties seem so distant, now, almost as if they belonged to another life, another him. For the first time in a long while, he feels like he can face whatever luck throws at him. Pulling off a ridiculous heist does wonders for one's self-esteem, it seems. Or maybe it has nothing to do with the heist and everything to do with the prospect of not having to spend the rest of his miserable existence alone, wallowing in self-pity.

"Yes, well, I thought I would need it. Turns out I was wrong."

The way Colress nods, the hint of a tentative smile lifting up the corner of his mouth, tells him that it's exactly the kind of answer he was hoping to receive. "Oh, good."

Grimsley already knows he'll have to fabricate an excuse for the odd positioning of the suitcase that doesn't delve too deep into the embarrassing state in which he has spent the last few weeks – jumping at every sound even remotely akin to that of someone knocking at his door or trying to break in through the windows, plagued by all sorts of worries that, for better or worse turned, out to be unfounded. Just like he knows Colress won't believe a single word that comes out of his mouth, but will hopefully be too polite to acknowledge it, keeping his conjectures for himself.

And it's fine, Grimsley decides.

He can work with that.


End file.
